All I Really Want
by Mummyluvr
Summary: After a fight with his brother, Sam finds himself in the past. Is it a Ghost of Christmas messing wtih him, or is something sinister at work? And what is it about the holidays that brings out the honesty in his brother? Followup to My Christmas Wish
1. Chapter 1

First off, let me suggest something. I recommend that you read last year's "My Christmas Wish" before delving into this masterpiece. The previous story is mentioned, and it might help if you had some background. For those of you without the time, here's a quick summary:

Sam and Dean had a fight about how to spend Christmas, and when Dean woke up on Christmas Eve, Sam was six and didn't know who Dean was. They spent Chrsitmas together, and Dean slowly figured out that it was his fault that Sam had been turned into a kid. Apparently if you're a good person and make a wish on Christmas Eve, it will come true. Wonder why they left that one out the 'Night Before Christmas'? Anyway, Dean granted his own wish (to give that kid the Christmas he'd always wanted) and got Sammy a dog. The next morning, Sam was tall again! The brothers made up and decided to keep the dog. The end.

Now, on to this year...

**Title:** All I Really Want

**Summary: **After a fight with his brother, Sam finds himself inexplicably in the past. Is it a Ghost of Christmas messing around wtih him, or is something more sinister at work? And what is it about the holidays that brings out the honesty in his big brother[Follow-up to "My Christmas Wish"

**Rating:** K+ to T

**A/N:** This story is kind of an AU fic. I'm off in my own little Christmas universe, where the boys have a dog and Dean still owns his soul. As you'll discover, there is a reason for the latter. I don't want people yelling at me for making Sam seem like a jerk in the first chapter :)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural or its characters. I know, Merry Fudgin' Christmas...

* * *

All I Really Want

December 20, 1995

Clarkson, Kansas

The bedroom door slammed shut before being pulled roughly open and slammed again. "Get out of my room!" a very irate Sam Winchester yelled at his older brother.

"My room, too," Dean pointed out, plopping down on his bed, crossing his arms, and gazing with mild interest at his younger sibling.

Sam snorted and began rooting through dresser doors, making as much noise as he could and being sure to knock as many things off the desk as humanly possible, knowing that his brother would pick up after him. "I don't even see why you care so much."

"I care because it's Christmas," Dean said, watching his brother dig through old clothes, apparently looking for something.

"Exactly," Sam exclaimed, pulling a rumpled piece of paper out of his sock drawer, "which is why I want to have fun. I want to have a normal Christmas."

"We have a normal Christmas."

"We eat Oscar Meyer wieners and watch 'The Grinch,'" Sammy pointed out, "not exactly normal. And, come on, Dean, how many times am I gonna get the chance to head out to a real Christmas cottage with one of my friends?"

"But-"

"I want to do this," Sam said softly, shoving the paper under his brother's nose, "look, Jimmy even wrote up an invitation and everything. He really wants me to spend Christmas with him, and his parents said it was ok. They'll be with us the whole time, and there are gonna be other kids there. _Please_?"

Dean sighed as his brother turned on the charm, eyes going wide, lips pouting. "But dad-"

"Dad's never home for Christmas."

"He will be this year," Dean stated, "he promised. We can have a real family Christmas."

Sammy sighed, taking his invitation back and placing it safely beneath a layer of socks. "Dad's said that before. He won't be home."

Dean shrugged. "Ok, let's say he won't. You want to leave me all alone on Christmas?"

"You can hang out with your own friends."

"Don't have any."

Sam lowered his eyes and headed toward the door. "Not my fault." He ducked out of the room, knowing that, no matter what, Dean was going to cave. Dean always caved. It was one of the things Sam loved about his brother. He could always get his way when Dean was around.

The elder brother sat in his room, staring up at the ceiling, knowing that it would be another lonely lunchmeat Christmas, even after all the hard work and planning he'd done to make it better. Sam's final words resonated in his head. _Not my fault._

"That's what you think," Dean muttered, turning onto his stomach and closing his eyes. Damn, what he wouldn't give for a real friend.

December 22, 2007

Cedar City, Kentucky

"But I haven't seen them since I left Stanford," Sam whined, following at his brother's heels as the older man paced the room, "and they actually want me to spend Christmas with them. I'm surprised they even remember my name. Come on, Dean, _please_?"

"We had an agreement," Dean argued, spinning around to face his younger sibling, "remember?"

Sam dropped his eyes, letting them rove over the shag carpeting before finding the little dog that sat in a corner, watching the whole ordeal play out. The sand-colored dog's tail wagged as his favorite owner caught his eye and he trotted over.

"Criss wants you to stay," Dean said, leaning down and scooping the dog up in his arms, "lookee." He started bouncing the dog up and down in his arms, his voice sliding up a couple of octaves. "_Please won't you spend Christmas with us, Sammy?_"

Sam bit back a smile. "I just want to see my friends."

"You can see 'em after Christmas."

"Dean-"

"You said things were gonna be different."

"That was last year."

"It shouldn't matter. You promised."

"I was still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I'd spent the holidays as a five-year-old."

"You were six," Dean replied, setting the dog down, "and a lot easier to get along with."

"Well, then, maybe you should have kept me that way," Sam sneered.

"Don't think I didn't consider it."

Sam blinked. "What?"

Dean dropped his eyes. "Nothing."

"You mean you actually thought about-"

"Forget it, all right? Pack up and head out if you want. I'm staying here."

The younger man sighed. "You can come with me."

"You really think those law school nerds are gonna want me hanging around and raining on their parade?"

"If you really want to spend Christmas together-"

"I'm not gonna kill your normal buzz on Christmas," Dean sighed, "now, where's this party?"

"Colorado. Up in the Rockies. Jake's folks are letting him use the cabin. He's invited a bunch of people over. You sure you don't want to come?"

"Positive," Dean said, rooting through his duffle bag for a change of clothes before heading into the bathroom for a nice, warm shower, "go have fun." There was only the slightest of bitter tones in his voice.

o0o0o0o0o0o

Sammy fumbled through the motel room door a little past midnight, yawning wide, eyes struggling to adjust to the absence of light in the small room. Dean was already asleep, Sam could hear him snoring. Slowly, carefully, he crossed the room.

He'd headed out after realizing that Dean wasn't going to leave the shower as long as he was still there, and had killed the time by walking around the quaint city. He'd wandered into a bar, gotten a light buzz, and decided to pack up and head out in the morning.

Sighing, Sam shuffled under the covers and pulled them up to his chin, letting his eyes slide shut as he thought about the latest in his bout of fights with his brother. It had all started innocently enough, but what Dean had said had spooked him a little bit. Had his brother actually considered…?

He was asleep before he could even finish the question, mind lost in a pleasant fog of happy thoughts of the bright Christmas that undoubtedly lay ahead.

o0o0o0o0o0o

Sam squinted his eyes against the bright morning sun that filtered in through the window. He groaned and brought his arm up to cover his face, not yet ready to face the day. Somewhere near his bed he could hear a shuffling sound, soft footsteps on the carpet.

He moaned again, rolling onto his side, trying to ignore the small noises his pacing brother was making as he criss-crossed the room. Sam wasn't quite ready to talk about it. Not yet, anyway.

That was when he heard it, just as he was falling back to sleep. It was soft at first, quiet, and he barely even noticed. It slowly got louder, more panicked, until Sam could make out every word.

"What am I gonna do? He's gonna kill me when he gets back. He's gonna kill me, he's gonna bring me back to life, and he's gonna kill me again." The voice was familiar somehow, but Sam couldn't place it. He knew one thing for sure, though. It wasn't Dean.

Sam sat up, finally opening his eyes, the sunlight blinding him for a moment. When the spots cleared from his vision he saw that the person the voice belonged to had stopped pacing and stood across the bed from him, staring with wide hazel eyes.

It was a kid, probably in his teens, with longish hair and a deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face. "Hi," the kid muttered, raking a hand through his messy blond mane, "uh… you're up."

Sam nodded, glancing quickly around the room. He wasn't in the motel anymore. There were two beds set up in the room, but the place was cleaner, bigger, and smelled better. He gulped. "Where am I?"

The teenager blinked. "You don't remember?"

The hunter took one more look around the room. It was familiar, like the kid, but he couldn't place it. He shook his head.

"That's not good. Um…"

"Who are you?" Sam asked, cutting the kid off, figuring that the more answers he got, the better. After all, the kid looked scared. It was possible he needed help. That still didn't explain the room, though.

A hurt expression cut its way across the boy's face. "You don't remember?"

"Look," Sam explained, keeping his voice calm and level, "the last thing I remember, I was stumbling back into a motel room after a night at the local bar, and-"

"You went to a bar? How old are you?"

"24."

The teen plopped down on the edge of Sam's bed. "Twelve years," he muttered, shaking his head, "no wonder it's fuzzy." He turned back to the hunter, "you really don't know me?"

Sammy shook his head again. "Mind filling me in, kid?"

"I'm not a kid. I'm sixteen."

"All right. You're sixteen. Now, what am I doing here?"

The boy shrugged. "Dunno. Woke up and you were… well, you were 24."

"As opposed to…?"

The blond gulped. "12."

Sam closed his eyes. "That's impossible."

"You really don't remember me?"

The hunter's eyes slid open. There was a hint of desperation in the kid's voice now, a sort of longing that he instantly recognized, could almost place. _"I want us to be together again. I want us to be a family_._"_

"Dean?"

The boy perked up, face brightening, eyes shining. "Knew you could do it, Geekboy." He laughed nervously.

"What year is it?"

"1995."

"Where are we?"

"Clarkson, Kansas," Dean replied, sidling closer on the bed and looking up at him with sharp eyes, "dad's out hunting a ghoul somewhere east of here. He won't be back 'til Christmas."

"Christmas?"

"Yeah, you know, _Christmas_. The holiday where we celebrate a big fat guy in a red suit. Don't tell me you forgot about Christmas, too?"

"What day is it?" he asked, leaning forward.

"Christmas? The twenty-fifth. Today? Twenty-first. Why?"

"I can't be here. I've got a party…"

The boy's face darkened instantly. "Of course," he muttered, his voice bitter, "why not?"

"What's that?"

Dean sighed, getting up off the bed and heading for the bedroom door. "One pancake, or two?"

* * *

So, what do you think? As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. Happy Holidays! 


	2. Chapter 2

I've gotta say, I'm actually kinda surprised that this one was reviewed/favorited. Thanks, guys! And to make your holidays bright, here's chapter 2!

* * *

Sam found it incredibly difficult to stop staring at his brother. It had been a while since he'd seen the man- sorry, _boy_- cook.

"Shouldn't you be in school?" he asked, trying to dispel the awkward atmosphere that had settled in the kitchen since they'd entered it.

Dean turned around, smirking that unmistakable smirk of his, proving without a doubt that he was who he said he was. "Dude, it's, like, seven. And Christmas."

Sam nodded. "Right. Sorry. Stupid question."

Dean turned back to the stove. "Makes sense coming from a stupid person, though," he quipped.

"Takes one to know one," Sam shot back, leaning back into the hard wooden chair and gazing around the kitchen. He could barely remember this house, but that made sense, seeing as how his childhood had been made up of a flurry of towns, homes, and motels. It was nice, though, he had to admit that. Not perfect, but nice.

He went back to watching Dean's back, smiling as the scent of fresh food filled the room. It had been a long time since his brother had actually made a meal for him, actually taken the time to do more than just visit the nearest drive-through. He hadn't realized it, but he'd kind of missed it.

"You get a lot of time for Holiday break?" he asked.

"Well, it's not exactly _Holiday_ break," Dean corrected him, flipping the pancakes, "more like _Christmas_ break. No one calls it Holiday."

Sammy smirked. _Give it time,_ he thought.

"Besides," Dean added, "every day's a break. I dropped out, remember?"

Sam felt his eyes bug. "How old did you say you were?"

"Sixteen. But you know I stopped going. Kind of hard to miss big brother dropping you off everyday." He walked to a cabinet and grabbed a couple of plates. "You never answered my question. One or two?"

"Uh, two." Sam said, his mind going numb with shock. It was a mild shock, sure, but he hadn't thought about his brother's level of education in a long time, and to be confronted with it again so suddenly…

Dean set a plate piled with pancakes in front of him. "There's no way you're only gonna eat two," the now-younger man explained, smiling as he took his own seat, "I know you."

"You dropped out," Sam blurted, stopping Dean before his first forkful of breakfast could reach his mouth. "I knew that. I just… you're so young."

"Dude," Dean said, his voice high with false abashment, "sixteen. I'm not a kid anymore."

"Yeah, but… you're never gonna graduate."

"Kinda parta the dropping out deal, yeah."

"What if you want to go to college?"

Dean started to laugh, spraying small chunks of pancake all over the table and his too-stunned-to-notice brother. "Seriously? What could college possibly do for me? Until they instate Ghost Hunting 101 as a class, I'm fine right here, thanks."

"But you could make friends," Sam said, barely registering the way his brother's grip fell suddenly slack, nearly dropping his fork to his plate, "you could get a girlfriend. You could get an education and a real job and be normal and-"

"Aw, come on," Dean scoffed, "don't tell me you _still_ haven't outgrown that?"

"What?"

"That stupid obsession with being normal. It's overrated, you know."

"But it's not. Dean, I went to college and I made friends and I got a girlfriend. I got a full-ride to Stanford. It was-"

"You left?" Dean asked, his voice holding that same note of longing and desperation it had when he'd been questioning Sam in the bedroom.

"Well," Sammy said quickly, realizing he'd made a mistake, "I… dad kicked me out. I had to go."

"You…" Dean looked up at him with hurt, tired eyes, "you got what you wanted?"

"Yeah," Sam smiled, "I guess I did. For a while. Then it kinda fell apart. But I was happy."

"Did… why'd you wake up here?"

"I dunno. Went to sleep in a motel room with you. Guess we should try to find that out, huh?"

"College boy's got no clue?" Dean asked playfully, smirk back in place.

"Not really."

"See, that education's not good for anything, anyway. Nothing useful, at least."

"That's not true."

"Really? What could I possibly find at college?"

"Well, I found a girlfriend and real friends. You could find that. It's not too late for you to go back, get a high school diploma-"

"Be all I can be?" Dean interrupted.

"Instead of an army of one," Sam nodded.

"Sorry. Not going back."

"Why?"

Dean blinked, then looked down at his half-eaten pancake as if it were the most interesting thing he'd seen in a long while. "Why what?"

"Why'd you drop out?"

"You don't wanna know."

"No," Sam insisted, "I do. You never really told me before."

Dean looked back up at him, his eyes shining. He bit his lip, glancing around the small kitchen. It looked almost like he was internally debating something, trying to decide what to do. "You want the truth, or what I told dad?"

Sam felt his eyes go unnaturally wide for the second time that morning. "You lied to _dad_?"

"Kinda. It's not a big deal, though. Doesn't matter."

"What'd you tell him?"

Dean shrugged. "Just that I wanted to leave school to go hunting with him more, to really learn the ropes of the family business."

The older man nodded. The story sounded familiar. "Well, what really made you drop out, then?"

"Not so much a what," Dean said reluctantly, "and more of a who." He took a deep breath. "It was you."


	3. Chapter 3

Wohoo! A couple more replies. Gee, I really hope things pick up over the weekend... I'm gettinga complex here...

* * *

Sam blinked, his mouth working silently, brain processing unusually slow as Dean stared at him and fidgeted.

"Sammy?" the boy asked, "you ok?" Sam couldn't say anything, no matter how hard he tried. "Sammy, look, it was a joke," Dean said hastily, the words spilling from his mouth in a waterfall of consonants and vowels, sounds and syllables, "I was kidding. Really. Look, I'm-"

"I'm not mad," Sam finally managed, glad that he'd spent the past two years with the man this boy would become, had learned to read subtle signs, knew what his brother was so nervous about, "I just want to know how."

"How?" Dean asked, confused, "how…?"

"How is it my fault?"

"Not really _you_," the teen said quickly, "your friends. It wasn't you."

"Just tell me."

Dean sighed and hung his head. "It wasn't you," he whispered, his voice barely audible, "it's _never_ you." He looked back up at Sam with eyes full of hurt and fear, eyes that could never really hide the truth, no matter how hard the face and mind and body tried.

Sam nodded his understanding. "Ok."

"When we were kids," the teenager began slowly, "before you were even in school, I brought friends over to play. It was cool at first, but as you got older you wanted to be included. You didn't have any friends of your own, so I let you join in. My friends didn't like that. They made fun of you. They even tried to beat you up. Actually did a couple of times."

Sam nodded again, a little unsure of what his Dean's childhood chums had to do with his attitude toward school.

"Every town," he continued, "every school. All of them hated you. I had to choose. I chose you. Family is forever, right? I stopped try make friends 'cause I figured we had each other and that would be enough, you know? No one else could ever understand what our lives were like, anyway, so why not?"

"I guess it makes sense."

"Of course it does. Or, it did. Until you went to school. You made your own friends. We still hung out, though, and you thought it was cool having an older kid around." He paused, dropping his gaze again. "Then we moved here. You've been wanting to be like _them_ for a while now, but the guys you met here… last year, when we moved in, you started hanging out with a group of people that kinda acted like my old friends. They don't like having me around. They gave you a choice."

"You or them," Sam whispered, the memories of the town and the house and his friends flooding painfully back as he realized what Dean was saying.

"You put off choosing," Dean explained, "until April. We were at some fast food joint. You were sitting with your friends, and I was sitting across the room, making sure nothing happened to you. You were all talking and pointing and laughing, and then I heard it."

"I chose?"

"You_ told_."

Sam leaned a little closer over the table, unsure that he'd heard correctly, his shirt coming dangerously close to a meeting with the remnants of his forgotten, syrupy breakfast. "What?"

"You _told_," Dean reiterated, snapping his head up, pain flashing across his face, lingering in his haunted gaze, "you told them our secret, the one you swore you'd never tell. You told them and they told everyone at school, even though you said you'd sworn them to secrecy. You chose _them_ over _me_ and I found a dozen copies of 'Pat The Bunny' in my locker, the teachers laughed at me, kids walked down the hallway quoting baby books at me."

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, now thoroughly confused.

"You told them who taught me to _read_," Dean hissed, "you told them I learned when I was _nine_."

"That's why you dropped out? Because I let that slip?"

"You let it slip to people who _hated_ me! They told everyone. They tortured me for a week. They wouldn't stop! I didn't have a choice. I had to leave."

"But to never go back-"

"I wanted to," the boy explained softly, his eyes falling back to his plate, "I thought we'd leave town and I could tell dad I changed my mind and I could start over, but we're still here and those people still hang out with you and they still make fun of me."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but again found no words. 'I'm sorry' seemed too insignificant, but nothing else seemed right.

"Don't tell dad," Dean whispered, saving Sam the trouble of replying.

"_Dad?_" Sammy gasped, forgetting for the moment that he had emotionally damaged his brother during what were supposed to be the best years of the blond's life.

"Yeah. He'd just tell me to tough it out and go back. Show no fear. Ignore them. He doesn't know how hard it is."

"Dad?"

Dean nodded. "Dad. He'll be back any day. I told you that."

Sam blinked. Yeah. Yeah, Dean _had_ told him that, but he'd been so distracted by his little time trip that he hadn't paid much attention. Of course their father was alive. It was 1995.

"Why?" Dean asked, his body rigid, eyes narrowed and suspicious, effectively pulling Sam from his thoughts. "Why would you ask about dad like that? Is something gonna happen to him?"

"Uh," the older man stumbled over the words, his mind recalling something Dean had told him the year before, _"You try telling a six-year-old that his daddy's dead. I wasn't dealing with that."_ Six or sixteen, it definitely wasn't a good idea, especially knowing Dean. "No. No, he's fine."

"You sure?"

Sam nodded. "Positive. So, uh, he's gonna be home for Christmas this year?"

"That's what he said," Dean shrugged, relaxing, obviously buying Sam's lie, "he promised we could spend the holidays together. Not that you'll be here. You're gonna be partying with your friends."

"Because I'm gonna show up at a twelve-year-old's home like this," Sam pointed out.

The teenager perked up, a shy smile worming its way onto his face. "Hey, that's right. Unless we fix this, I'm stuck with you."

"You just might be. I remember this town, the friends, the school, but not a Christmas party. And I'm pretty sure I'd remember it."

"Maybe. Or maybe you're just getting older. Memory's the first thing to go. Besides, we need to find a way to get you back. You've still got a party to go to. Mr. Popularity, no matter the year, huh?"

The older man nodded slowly, detecting a hint of disappointment and resentment in the boy's voice. "Yeah, I guess."

"So, who's the lucky friend this time?"

"An old college buddy," Sam explained slowly. The revelation that he'd left the family for a few years had obviously hit his brother hard, and the kid had seemed to have enough issues without that little tidbit of information. It just seemed best to proceed with caution. "He invited me up to his folks' cabin in the Rockies for the holidays."

"Sounds familiar," Dean commented, getting up to start cleaning since breakfast had been forgotten in light of conversation.

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. One of your friends this year is having a party in a cabin. You really want to go."

"I do?"

Dean nodded. "You keep begging me to let you."

"Sounds like me."

Dean nodded again, sliding the dirty plates into the sink and running warm water over them in an attempt to wash away the thick puddles of syrup and gobs of uneaten pancake. "So you're gonna want to get back. We can take the car to the library today and see if we can find anything about time travel."

"Thought dad was gone," Sam said, glancing toward the smell house's front window to see into the empty driveway, "did he ride with someone?"

"He took the truck."

"The truck?"

"Yeah, the one he got after he gave me the car."

"He gave you the car?"

"You're repeating everything I say in the form of a question."

"The form of a question?" Sam grinned.

"Wow," Dean breathed, turning from the sink to appraise his usually-younger brother, "your memory sucks. Dad gave me the car for my sixteenth birthday. He takes the trucks on hunts now."

Sam nodded. "I know that, I just… you look too young to me. I can't see you driving."

"Been driving since I was ten," Dean defended "come on, we'll head out now." He left the plates soaking in the sink and walked from the room. Sam got up and followed, finding himself in a small living room filled with moth-eaten furniture and a dusty television set. Dean was digging around in a closet. He poked his head out and tossed a familiar leather jacket to his brother. "Bundle up," he grinned as Sam put the jacket on, only to find that it was too short, "it's cold out there."


	4. Chapter 4

I've got a special Christmas treat for y'all today, folks! Since today was my last day of school until the third, I thought I'd give you an extra-long chapter today. Whoohoo!!!!

* * *

It was indeed cold outside. The Impala nearly lost traction on a couple of roads, but Dean corrected her easily enough, banging his head along to AC/DC as snow started to fall from the dense grey sky. Sam sat in the passenger seat, bundled up in his father's old leather jacket, a jacket he'd come to associate with his brother over the past couple of years.

The car rumbled up a hill, groaning as snow gave way to ice and Dean tightened his grip on the wheel. The large brick library came slowly into view, sitting far-off in the snow from the parking lot. Dean pulled expertly into a spot, flashing a brief smile at Sam before pushing open the door and sending a blast of frigid air into the car. He shivered, wrapping his tattered jacket more tightly around himself.

Bracing themselves against the snow, which had picked up since their arrival in the otherwise abandoned parking lot, the Winchester brothers stepped out of the car, slamming the doors behind them, and started up the long path that led to the imposing library.

The sidewalk didn't appear to have been shoveled yet that winter, and the deep snow hid inch-thick ice. Sam and Dean trudged up the winding path, slipping every so often and chuckling nervously as they regained their balance.

They were about halfway to the old library when Sam irrevocably lost his balance and went down, reaching out and grabbing the closest solid thing he could find. That solid thing just so happened to be Dean, who fell on top of him with a yelp, pushing Sam farther down into the snow, which promptly filled the inside of the jacket.

"Walk much?" Dean asked, pushing himself up and brushing himself off, shivering as cold snow melted against the skin exposed by the holes in his jacket and jeans.

"Weigh much?" Sam shot back, struggling to his feet only to slip back to the ground as he hit another patch of ice.

"Maybe you should just stay there," Dean suggested, running a hand self-consciously over his flat stomach, "I'll come get you when I'm done."

"Or maybe," Sam grinned, reaching up and grabbing his brother's ankle, pulling the younger man back into the snow, "we can both just hang out hare for a while."

"And do what?" Dean asked, looking up into the sky and stretching out in the cold white stuff, " make snow angels?"

"Better than falling on our asses again."

"Hey, I didn't fall. You pulled me down. Twice."

"You know what that means? You're weak."

"How'd you get that?"

Sammy smiled, unaware that his brother was gathering up a fistful of snow. "Well, if you were strong, you would have been able to hold me up. Therefore, weak."

"I was standing on ice."

"Doesn't matter, man. Strength is strength."

"Like this?" Dean asked, reaching over and shoving his snowball in Sam's face.

The older man coughed and sputtered, snow stinging his eyes, making his nose go numb. He swatted the powder away angrily. "What the Hell did you do that for?"

Dean sat up and shrugged. "Seemed like it would be fun."

"You call that fun?" Sam asked, pushing himself to his knees and glaring at the teenager.

"Well, it was fun for me…"

"Yeah?" Sam asked, discreetly scooping up his own handful of snow, "well guess what? _This _is fun for _me_." He reached over with his free hand and shoved his brother back into the powder, simultaneously grabbing the collar of the boy's shirt and pulling it away from his skin. Dean's eyes went wide as Sam shoved his snowball into the space he'd created.

The teen immediately pulled away, slipping on the ice as he struggled up onto his knees and crawled through the snow, cursing at his brother. "Wh-what the H-hell were you _thinking_?" he shivered.

Sammy just shrugged. "Vengeance is sweet?"

Dean scooped the snow that hadn't melted out of his shirt and shot a deadly glare in his brother's direction. "Let's just get going, ok?"

"What's the matter?" Sam teased, "you can dish it out, but you can't take it?"

"Dude, I'm soaking wet!"

Grinning from ear to ear, Sam struggled to his feet, holding out a hand to help his brother up as soon as he'd gotten his balance. "Truce?"

Dean smirked, grabbing the outstretched hand and using it to slam the older man face-first into the snow. "Truce," he chirped, getting to his feet and heading off toward the library.

Sam pulled his face out of the snow, wiping off the fresh powder even as more fell on top of him. He grabbed another snowball, and, shakily gaining his feet again, followed after the teenager.

He snuck up behind Dean, weapon of choice held at the ready, fully prepared to teach the little snot a lesson about war, when Dean spun and hit him in the face with more snow.

"Your ugly mug is gonna be permanently red after this, college boy," Dean quipped, scooping up another handful of snow as he strolled backwards toward the library.

"What is your obsession with my face?" Sam demanded.

Dean shrugged. "Only exposed part of your body. Lesson number one in war, little brother. Always find your opponent's weakest point and use it against him. See, you should pay attention when dad talks."

"And maybe you should watch where you're going," Sam grinned as Dean's foot hit another patch of ice and the teen went down hard.

"Truce?" Dean asked, holding out a hand for Sam to grab.

"Not falling for that one again."

"Aw, come on, man."

Sighing, Sam planted his feet firmly on the ground on either side of the sidewalk and pulled his brother up. "Truce," he grinned.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"I can't believe we went through all of that and it wasn't even open," Sam grumbled, trudging through the snow that had built up beside the sidewalk with his hands shoved in his pockets. There was no way he was going back onto the icy concrete path, not with Dean watching his every move, waiting to pounce.

Dean just shrugged. "Oh well. Guess we'll have to wait until after the holidays. Or until dad gets back."

"You really think he's coming home for Christmas, don't you?" Sam asked as they rounded a small bend and the parking lot came fully into view. Dean opened his mouth to answer, but stopped. He stood on the snow-packed lawn, staring straight ahead, mouth hanging open, eyes wide. "Dean?"

The teenager shook his head, snapping himself out of his stupor. "Maybe we should go back," he said softly, "maybe they're open, and we just didn't know. We should knock or something."

"The big sign on the door said 'closed,' Dean," Sam pointed out. He glanced over at his brother, a little concerned about the sudden silence and suggestion of returning to the unoccupied library. "You all right?"

Dean nodded stiffly, his eyes staring straight ahead, out over the parking lot. Sam followed his gaze, shocked to see that the previously empty lot wasn't so abandoned anymore. A pair of young kids was hanging out around the Impala, one leaning against her doors, the other sitting on her hood, waiting for something.

"You know them?" Sam asked.

The teenager nodded again. "Yeah."

"They friends of yours?"

"Friends of _yours_, actually."

"Oh. What do you want to do about it?"

"I told you. I want to go see if the library's open. We can wait them out there. They won't be able to survive in the cold for long."

"Neither can we. We're all wet."

"You got a better idea?"

"Actually," Sam said, "I do. We go get in the car and head back to the house. No big deal." He started off toward the lot.

"_Very_ big deal," Dean corrected, grabbing the older man's arm and pulling him back. "We can't go over there. They can't know what happened to you. It could mess them up for life."

"Who said we're gonna talk to them? We just need a change of clothes. Come on." He pulled out of Dean's grip and continued walking to the car. He turned about halfway to the lot to see his brother still hanging back. Rolling his eyes, he made a 'come hither' gesture with one finger and Dean reluctantly started walking.

By the time Sam reached the edge of the parking lot, Dean was right beside him, doing his best to square his shoulders and puff out his chest. Once they got to the car, however, the false bravado was gone.

"Winchester," one of the kids, a girl with long black hair, smiled as she slid off the hood of the car, her feet landing in the snow with a soft crunch, "I've gotta say, I can't believe my eyes."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, chewing unconsciously on his lower lip.

"Well," she said, her smile turning into something malicious, "it _is_ a library…"

"What Tracy's trying to say," the other kid, a boy with short-cropped hair and a lopsided mouth, interrupted, "is that you shouldn't be here."

"Yeah," Tracy agreed, "Jimmy's right. I mean, let's face it. You're not exactly the reading type."

Dean ducked his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Guys-"

"Sam tells me you won't let him come to my party," Jimmy said suddenly, cutting off any plea or retort the older boy might have been preparing, "like you have something better planned, Mr. _Grinch_."

"It's not that-"

"He showed you the invitation, right?" Tracy butted in, pulling a folded-up piece of paper out of her pocket and looking at it with an intense gaze, "here, let me read it to you."

"I know how to-"

"'You are cordially invited-'"

"'To a Christmas party held by Mr. James Spencer,'" Dean cut her off, his eyes closed tightly, fists clenched in his pocket as he recalled the exact wording of the invitation from memory, "'to take place on the twenty-fifth of December, 1995. Bring gifts and food. Fun will be supplied.' I know what it says."

"Sam told you, didn't he?" Jimmy asked, stepping forward to wrap an arm around Tracy's waist and pull her close, an action that seemed out-of-place when performed by a twelve-year-old, "that's so nice of him. Reading to his retarded brother."

Sam had been standing by, watching the torture play out, hardly able to comprehend that his brother would let them talk to him like that. He'd been too fascinated by the things being said, things he'd heard as long as Jimmy and Tracy had been his friends, but things he'd never really paid attention to. The words weren't the only things he was amazed by, though. He'd never noticed how they cut his brother before, never saw how deep the hurt went. And calling Dean retarded was the last straw.

Sam knew his brother wasn't the sharpest knife in the collection, but he certainly wasn't stupid. He could come up with a workable plan when he needed to, could turn a Walkman into and EMF meter, had spent five years of his life faking bedtime stories for his brother based off the pictures in the books. No, he wasn't stupid.

Clearing his throat, Sam stepped between Dean and the two preteens. "Hey, guys," he said softly, "that's not nice."

"Who are you?" Jimmy demanded, "the dead-beat dad?"

Sam blinked. Funny, he couldn't remember Jimmy being such a little brat. "What?"

"Sam hates you," Tracy added, "you don't let him do anything fun. You don't let him have friends. You leave him at home with his defective brother."

Sam glanced back at Dean in time to see the flinch. "I don't think you understand-"

"I understand fine." And now he remembered that Tracy had a very annoying habit of having to make her opinions known as soon as they formed in her mind. Perfect. "You leave the life of a smart, kind person in the hands of an emotionally damaged psychopath who's going to end up killing someone someday."

He turned back to Dean. Flinch.

And then something in him snapped. It was something familiar, something that had snapped before. He'd seen a girl getting beat up by her boyfriend outside a Texaco and he'd felt the same thing and sent the guy to an emergency room. He'd been possessed, but conscious long enough to feel the same thing snap within the demon as she knocked Jo out and proceeded to rape her. It was the same thing that was snapping now as he looked down at two privileged, snot-nosed kids who had no idea what his brother had done for him over the years.

It wasn't often that Sam was conscious of his height, actually _aware_ that he towered over everyone in the general vicinity, but in moments like these, he was. And he used it.

Glowering down at the kids, Sam took a step forward, craning his neck at a ninety degree angle just to see them. Jimmy pulled Tracy closer and they backed up a step, nearly falling into the snow. "You don't know what you're talking about," Sam reiterated, his voice no longer soft and friendly, but deep and deadly.

"You," Tracy began in a whisper, but it was Sam's turn to cut _her_ off.

"You don't know what my family's been through," he growled, taking another step forward, sending the kids scooting farther back in such a hurry that they slipped and fell backwards into the snow, "you don't know what _he's_ been through," he added, gesturing back toward Dean, " so leave us alone."

Jimmy opened his mouth, even moved it a bit, but didn't say anything. He did, however, find the strength to scrabble to his knees and take off crawling across the snow. Tracy, eyes wide, face pale, rolled over and slid across the lot on her belly, either unwilling or unable to even make it to her knees.

Smirking at his victory, Sam turned back to his brother. Dean wore the same expressions that Tracy and Jimmy had, his mouth and eyes stretched wide in shock, and for a moment Sam wondered if maybe he'd gone too far. Maybe he'd scared more than the neighborhood brats. Maybe he'd been too convincing.

And then Dean grinned, an expression that stretched from one ear to the other. "Dude," he breathed, breath puffing out in a cloud of smoke, "I wasn't gonna say anything before, but puberty was mighty good to you."

Sam blushed and shoved his hands into his pockets, looking out across the lot to find that Jimmy and Tracy had disappeared.

"Seriously," Dean continued, sidling up beside him, still smiling like a maniac, "when you went to sleep last night you were shorter and squeakier than both of them. Gotta hand it to the wonders of nature, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded slowly, "hey, do they…?"

"All the time," Dean shrugged, pulling the car keys out of his pocket and heading around to the driver's door, "but don't sweat it. I doubt they will again." He unlocked the doors and slid in behind the wheel. "I mean, did you _see_ their faces? Talk about being scared shitless. I half expected to see colored snow where they fell."

Sam chuckled as he slid into the car beside his brother and slammed the door. "And you weren't alone."

"I know," Dean said softly, something like awe in his voice, "you were incredible. No one's ever stood up for me like that before."

All laughter died on Sam's lips and he turned to look at his brother. Dean checked the rearview mirror and pulled out of the spot, heading back to the house. He'd sounded shocked, like no one was supposed to care enough to help him out. Sam felt his stomach twist into knots. How long had they stayed in Clarkson? He couldn't remember. How long had Dean been made fun of, been the butt of every joke?

He leaned back into the familiar leather seat, his mind racing. How many times had he said hurtful things? How many times had he said them when they _weren't_ just joking around? How many of his friends had he mouthed off about his brother to? How many had he left alone with Dean while he got ready to go out? How many…


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry this one took a while, guys. I had to do some Christmas shopping, seeing as how I didn't have time while school was still in session. I've got an extra-long update to compensate for the lateness, though.

Also, see if you can catch my special little references to SN-related movies and interviews within the chapter!

* * *

Sam blinked slowly in the bright light of the early morning sun. He looked around the room, hoping to find a busted mirror and grimy carpet. No such luck.

The door to the bedroom he shared with his brother stood open and the scent of fresh French Toast wafted up toward him from the kitchen. Groaning, he got to his feet and trudged from the room.

After he'd told off his old friends- friends that obviously hadn't been as great as he'd once thought- the rest of the day had seemed pretty uneventful. He and Dean had driven back to the house, changed into some dry clothes (Sam was stuck with the few shirts and pairs of jeans his dad had left behind, which didn't quite fit), and paged through John's extensive library, which had yielded no results.

And, apparently, this was something that wasn't going to correct itself.

"Morning, sunshine," Dean greeted. He was already sitting at the table, breakfast laid out in front of him.

"I'm still here."

"Figured that out, but thanks for the heads-up."

Sam collapsed into a chair and stared blankly down at his plate. "I just thought maybe… never mind."

Dean chuckled. "Come on, man. When has anything we've ever dealt with resolved itself?"

"Guess you're right."

"Of course I'm right. I'm older. Or, I was. Speaking of which, you up for more research today, or what?"

Sam glanced up from his breakfast to eye the boy sitting across from him. That hadn't exactly been Dean's 'gung-ho hunting' voice. "We went through every book yesterday," Sammy pointed out, "and the library's probably still closed."

"I hope it is," Dean said through a mouthful of toast and powdered sugar, "snowed about a foot last night."

Sam swiveled in his chair, his back cracking loudly as he did so, to look out the window. Fluffy white powder blanketed the driveway, coating the Impala with tiny crystals of ice, hurting his eyes as it caught the glare from the sun and reflected it back into the small house.

It was a scene that he'd always loved; the purity, the brightness, the normalcy. It made him yearn for what he could never have, but also brought the possibility of being like everyone else, of making men and balls and forts and angels from the snow. It tongue-tied him a bit, so much so that he didn't even think about what he was saying. "Think dad'll make it home?"

"Why wouldn't he?" was Dean's immediate response. His tone was sharp, defensive, and maybe even a little scared.

"The snow," Sam, who had realized his mistake too late, hastily explained, "he might get snowed-in, or think the roads are too bad."

Dean shook his head. "He'll be here. He said he would. He promised."

Sam looked back out the window at the snow in the driveway. That pleading tone was back in his brother's voice, making the boy sound even younger than he was, making him seem smaller in Sam's mind. "Yeah. All right."

"Killer ghosts couldn't keep him away," Dean added weakly with a strained smile.

The older man nodded. "I'm sure. Hey, you wanna build a snowman?"

o0o0o0o0o0o

"I dub thee," Dean announced loudly, his voice carrying easily over the whitened lawns and buildings, "Mr. Buttons." He shoved two black buttons onto the top snowball and stepped back to admire his work.

"Nice," Sam said, sauntering over his hands shoved in his pockets, "but not as nice as mine." He stepped to the side and gestured to his own snowman, which stood tall beside one of the house's fogged up windows. "I call him Wade."

Dean cocked an eyebrow at his brother's snowman before turning back to his own. He had to admit, Mr. Buttons looked pretty weak in comparison. He was short and stocky, with a wider base and smaller head. "It's all right," he said defensively.

"What would you say if I told you that mine is taller, more attractive, and younger than yours?"

"Yours has to ride shotgun," Dean replied with a smirk.

"Least mine's not bowlegged."

The teen glanced at Mr. Button's base, then down at his own legs. "That's low, man. But at least mine doesn't have to duck to get through a door."

"Freckles are for sissies."

"So is long hair."

"Truce?"

Dean grinned. "Truce."

"So," Sam began as they headed back into the house, "Mr. Buttons, huh?"

Dean shrugged. "What can I say? I'm just creative like that. Better than Wade, though."

"Hey, I had a friend named Wade once."

"What happened to him?"

"He went into a stranger's house to use the bathroom and never came back."

Dean opened the door and walked into the home's small entryway, stamping the snow off his boots before slipping them off and setting them on a near-by rug. "Didn't his parents ever have the stranger danger talk with him?"

Sam shrugged, brushing snow off his pants and hanging his father's jacket up in the closet. "Guess it didn't sink in. So, got any hot chocolate?"

"Of course." The teenager went into the kitchen to get it ready while Sam wandered into the living room. He ran a finger over a dusty coffee table and inspected it just as Dean stuck his head through the doorway. "Which… oh, yeah, been meaning to dust. Anyway, you want regular or mint? And how many marshmallows?"

"Um, mint, I guess. And… five?"

Dean nodded. "That's what I thought. Only girls drink mint hot chocolate. And I'll give you ten. Know you like 'em." He disappeared back into the kitchen.

"So," Sam called, "you make breakfast and dust and drive. Anything you don't do?"

"Ice skate."

Chuckling to himself, Sam plopped down on the old couch and put his feet up on the dirty table. "Need any help?"

"Nah," Dean called out, "you just let your pretty little feet rest, Samantha."

Laughter fading, Sam leaned back into the lumpy couch. Something was bothering him. He couldn't quite place it, just knew that it was wrong. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, letting the smell of warming chocolate overtake him.

And then it came to him. Of course. He was twenty-four years old. Dean was currently sixteen. And who had driven them to the library? Who had made breakfast and lunch and dinner? Who was making hot cocoa? Who was taking care of who?

Sam opened his eyes. It wasn't like it was a recent development. Dean had always taken care of him. It was just a little more awkward now, letting a child watch over him, feed him, even find him clothes. He was certainly old enough to take care of himself, old enough to even take care of Dean if he wanted to.

Maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe he was too used to it, even though he had taken a little trip down Independence Lane when he'd gone off to Stanford. Maybe he didn't want things to change.

Dean reappeared in the living room, this time holding two steaming mugs that looked to be more full of marshmallows than liquid. "Careful," he cautioned, handing a glass to Sam, "it's hot."

"No duh, Einstein," Sammy grinned, "how'd you figure that one out?"

Dean sat carefully down beside him, sucking on the side of his free hand. "Burnt myself."

"Oh. Sorry."

The boy shrugged. "Not your fault."

"Yeah, but if I had-"

"I said it's not your fault. Man, you need to chill."

Sam sighed and looked into his mug, watching the marshmallows float around in circles in the pool of brown liquid. "So, only a few more days until Christmas, huh?"

"Yep. Don't worry. We'll get you back."

"I know," Sam replied softly. There was that tone again, one he'd only recently started hearing, a tone of longing and desperation, of hopelessness and fear, pain and rejection. But why was he hearing it now? And why couldn't he remember hearing it when he was a kid?

"You don't know how this could have happened, do you?" Dean asked, pulling him from his musings. "We've never dealt with anything like this before?"

Sam shook his head. "Not before Christmas Eve, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

The older man smiled at the memory. "Last year," he said, "we had a fight on the twenty-third. You wanted to celebrate Christmas and I didn't. When you woke up the next morning, I was six."

"Like, feet tall? Or years old?"

"Years old, Dean. Try to keep up."

"So, what was it?"

"You didn't know. I was just a kid, and I didn't remember most of my life." He sighed, looking back at the floating white blobs in his cup. "You took care of me. I guess I told you a story about some kid at school who told me that if you're a good person and make a wish on Christmas Eve, it'll come true."

"Yeah?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I thought I was the one who did it."

"And you weren't?" Dean asked slowly, suddenly very interested in the small burn on his hand.

"I woke up on Christmas morning to find the motel room all decorated, full of gifts." He smiled. "You got me a puppy. Stole him from the pound. We named him Criss."

"We still have him?"

"We do. You know, I'd always wanted a dog growing up."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know. I wanted one, too. Dad always said no." He took a drink of his cocoa. "So, uh, obviously, you're not six. What happened?"

"The wish got granted."

"The wish being…?"

Sam smiled. "I think you said your exact words were 'I just wish I could give that kid the Christmas he wants.' Therefore, six."

"Oh." Dean looked down into his own cup, apparently fascinated by the concept of hot chocolate with marshmallows. "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Dude. _Six_. You missed Christmas."

"But I remember it."

"So? _Six_. If it wasn't for me-"

"I never would have gotten what I wanted."

Dean looked up at him with mistrustful eyes. "I thought you wanted to be normal. I thought you wanted to go to school."

"I did. But sometimes things change. Sometimes we get what we want and then we just want something else."

"But you have to work for it?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, "nothing gets handed to you. I had to spend a lifetime begging to be like everyone else and yelling at you because I didn't want to celebrate Christmas before I got a dog. I had to sneak around behind dad's back just to get accepted into college and get a scholarship."

"But you got it?"

"I got it. It just took a while."

"How hard do you think you worked?"

"It took some time, so, hard. Why?"

The teen shrugged. "No reason."

Sammy narrowed his eyes. "No, there's a reason. There's always a reason with you. What do you want?"

"Nothing," Dean answered just a little too quickly, "I'm good. Really. I've got everything." _I want us to be together again. I want us to be a family._

"You want dad to be home for Christmas."

"Wouldn't you?"

"I want to go to a party," Sam pointed out, "I couldn't care less about what dad does."

"Or what I do." The reply was quiet, barely a whisper, but he heard it. His stomach twisted into knots again as he stared at the teenager, who had dropped his gaze back to his rapidly cooling mug.

Sam sighed. "What do you want to do?"

Dean looked back up at him, face stoic, eyes hurt. "It doesn't matter." He stood up and walked back into the kitchen.


	6. Chapter 6

Well, I hope everyone enjoys this little early Christmas gift from me to you. Happy Holidays!

* * *

Sam laced his finger together behind his head and stared up at the dark ceiling. "If you could have any one thing in the world," he asked, "what would it be?"

He heard Dean's bed creak as the boy turned toward him. "What?"

"If you could have anything in the world, what would you want?"

"Go to sleep," Dean moaned, rolling back over.

Sam sighed. They'd spent most of the day pouring back over their father's books, but hadn't found anything. Most of that time had been spent in strained silence, a silence that Sammy had been desperate to break.

"I'd want to go back to school," the older man said, hoping to restart the conversation, "maybe get a new girlfriend. Start over."

"If you had a girlfriend," Dean said after a pause, "why'd you leave her? I mean, if you want her back or something, why did you start hunting again?"

"She… died. Like mom. You and I went to find what killed her."

"Did we?"

"Kind of. Look, it doesn't matter now, all right."

"No," Dean insisted, "it totally matters. Where is it? _What_ is it? Can we kill it? That girl's gotta be, like, twelve now, right? Maybe we can save her and then you can go back and you won't have to leave. You won't have to go with me. You could be happy."

"Wouldn't that mess up the timeline?"

"Screw the timeline. Sammy, we could _save_ her. She wouldn't have to die."

"What about you?"

"I can take care of myself."

"What do you want?"

Dean sighed. "Would you stop trying to make everything about me? Think about it. If you love her-"

"If you love someone, sometimes you have to let them go."

"Exactly. You can finish college."

Sam blinked, still staring up at the ceiling. _Exactly?_ "What do you mean?"

"You left because she died. That thing killed her. If we kill that thing, it can't kill her, and you can finish school. See?"

"I know that," Sam shook his head, "but the first part. What did that mean? _Exactly_?"

"You love someone, you let them go," Dean restated, "I know that. You didn't have to tell me. Why do you think I was about to cave on Jimmy's party?"

"You were gonna let me go?"

"Yeah. You wanted to."

"What do _you_ want?"

"Honestly, man," Dean scoffed, "you're like a broken record today. I told you. It doesn't matter."

"Hypothetically, though," Sam attempted again, "if you could have anything, what would it be?"

"Hypothetically? For you to shut up so I could get some sleep. Happy now?" he rolled over again, his bed creaking on a rusty box spring.

"Why doesn't it matter?" Sam whispered.

Dean sighed. "Just stop it, Sammy."

"At least tell me that much."

"It's never gonna happen."

"You want mom to come back?" Sam asked, hazarding a guess based on past experiences with his brother and a slightly vampiric djinn.

"Drop it," Dean said.

"Just tell me and I will."

Dean groaned, grabbing a pillow and pulling it over his face, trying to block out his brother's annoying questions. Sam took the hint and started to relax, his mind still troubled. Why wouldn't what his brother wanted matter? Was it so outlandish that he thought-

"I'd want a home."

Sam sat up. "What?"

"I'd want," Dean said again, more slowly this time, "a home. A nice one. Protected. Nothing evil could get in. It would always be fully stocked and we'd never have to leave. We'd never have to worry. We could just live there together forever and nothing bad could ever happen. We'd be happy. We'd be safe. We'd be together. Like a family again. And I…" he trailed off.

"What? You what?"

"It's stupid."

"What, Dean?"

The boy sighed. "It's nothing. I just… I mean, if we didn't have to hunt and we were safe all the time… I guess I just figured I wouldn't have to be the adult anymore. Maybe I could just _be_. No responsibility." He smiled in the darkness. "I think that'd be nice."

"That's what you want? Why doesn't it matter?"

Dean laughed. "Because it's never gonna happen. We'll never settle down, dad'll never stop. We're gonna keep moving, and you're gonna leave, and I'm gonna take care of everyone. That's just the way it goes."

"Have you ever told dad?" Sam asked.

"You ever tell dad what _you_ want?"

The older man shrugged, sinking back under the covers. "Yeah. So?"

"I don't want to make him mad at me. Besides, like I said, it's never gonna happen."

Sam nodded in the darkness. "It could," he said slowly.

It was Dean's turn to sit up. "What do you mean? Why? How? Are you…?"

"What I told you today," Sam explained, wondering what exactly had been on his brother's lips as the teenager's voice again faded, "about Christmas Eve and wishes."

"Oh." Dean laid back down. "Come on, man. You don't believe that."

"_Six_. I believe."

"Thought you said you'd have to be-"

"A good person? Yeah. And you are."

"But isn't it… _wrong_?" The teen asked. "I mean, isn't it better to work for something?"

"If you want something," Sam said, "and you want it bad, sometimes you have to do whatever it takes to get it. That's what I did. Whatever it took. And I got it."

"Even if it means hurting people? Because if dad stops hunting, people are gonna die."

"Sometimes you've gotta think of yourself," the older man replied slowly, knowing that it was the wrong thing to say to a teenager. He also knew it was true. It was hard to get anything in life, especially in their life, without stepping on a few toes.

Dean nodded. "That's why you left."

"What?"

"To get what you want. To go to school and be normal, you had to leave. So you left." He sighed, a long, soft sound, as if he'd been holding it in all day. A sigh of relief. "I thought maybe you hated me."

Silence fell in the room. Sam stared up at the ceiling, thinking. Something about Christmas seemed to bring out the honesty in his brother, and he wasn't exactly sure if that was a good thing.

"I just thought of something," Dean said, his voice penetrating the darkness, "you're a good person, right?"

"I hope so. Why?"

"That's how you can get back. You can wish for it."

"I dunno."

"Come on, Sam. If I can do it, anyone can."

"But we don't know how it works," Sam said, "I mean, for all we know, it could be a one wish per family per year thing."

"Than do it."

"But you-"

"Forget about me. You don't deserve to be stuck here. Think of the timeline."

"There's gotta be an explanation as to why I'm here. No need to do anything drastic to send me back. We'll find a way."

"What if we don't?" Dean asked, "what if Christmas Eve passes and we haven't found a way to send you back? You'll be stuck."

"We'll just keep looking. You and me and dad."

Dean laughed. "Dad's not gonna waste his time with this. We can do it ourselves. I'm just saying, you might never be able to go back."

Sam turned to look at him, unable to see anything but a vague outline in the darkness. He sounded almost hopeful, excited. "How long do you think that'll take?"

"A while," Dean said softly, "maybe past the end of the year." He paused. "Maybe even until the end of January," he breathed, "maybe even longer."

"Guess I'll just have to stay, then," Sam shrugged, pulling the covers up and rolling over. If the lights had been on and he had been paying attention, he might have been able to see the wheels turning in his brother's mind, connections forming, hope for something he'd never actually thought he could have growing. If Sam had been awake, if he could have seen, maybe he would know that the now-younger man was coming to realize that everything he'd ever wanted was asleep in the next bed. But he wasn't, so he didn't.


	7. Chapter 7

So, how was everybody's Christmas? I got Guitar Hero 2 and spent four hours tyring to unlock Carry On Wayward Son, which I then butchered. Also, I finished writing this story on Christmas Eve and it's the longest yet at 100 pages (that's 20 chapters in all). So, sit back, relax, and get ready for a while, loooong ride :)

Merry Christmas!

* * *

Sam was surprised he'd never noticed it before. Even if Dean had stopped the annoying habit before facing down a woman in white with him, it still struck the youngest member of the Winchester clan as odd that he'd never paid close enough attention to his brother's nervous habit to pick up on it before.

"You're making me dizzy," Sam said, glancing away from the old TV to watch Dean start another lap around the near-by chair.

"He's not here," Dean muttered, "why isn't he here?"

Sam glanced back into the kitchen, where the breakfast dishes were still soaking. "It's still early."

"It's the twenty-third. He should be here."

"Maybe he's running late."

Dean stopped his pacing to turn on his brother. "It's _dad_. He's _never_ late."

The older man shrugged. "Maybe the hunt ran long. Maybe he's gonna be a while."

"But he _promised_," Dean whined.

Sam blinked. That plaintive tone, the pacing, what else had he missed through the years? "Well, hey, he's normally gone on Christmas anyway, so what's the big deal this year?"

"He said he'd be here," the teen repeated, "he promised me he'd come back in time to celebrate with us. He'd told me we'd spend Christmas as a family."

"He used to say that to me a lot," Sam muttered.

"And he didn't lie," Dean pointed out, plopping down in the chair he'd been circling.

"Yeah, he did. He was never there."

"Dude, what am I? Chopped liver?"

Sam mentally kicked himself. "No, I just… I thought you meant… you know?"

He was surprised to see Dean smile. "Relax, would ya? Geez, you're easy to mess with."

Sammy forced a grin. "Yeah, well… I'm just saying that we maybe shouldn't look forward to dad getting back. This wouldn't be the first time he's blown off holidays."

Dean nodded sadly. "Birthdays," he muttered, "He always misses my birthday."

"And Easter."

Another sad nod. "I have to hide the stupid eggs for you, and you never find 'em all."

"Thanksgiving."

"If I have to make one more freakin' turkey-"

"Independence Day."

"And the Fourth of July," Dean added, "he misses that, too."

Sam blinked and turned wide eyes on his brother. "Uh, Dean?"

The teenager cracked another smile. "That's what I'm talking about, man. Twelve years hasn't helped you at all. Still just a gullible as the day you were born. Which is how gullible you were before you woke up like, three feet taller than when you went to bed."

It was Sam's turn to smile. "I wasn't three feet tall when I was twelve."

"You were close."

"Sure," Sam snorted, "whatever you say."

Dean shook his head. "Stop trying to change the subject."

"You're the one who wandered off the holiday path," the older man pointed out, "not me. Besides, the other conversation was so depressing. It's Christmas. We should be talking about mistletoe and mangers and salvation, or something."

"And then maybe Charlie Brown will finally get to kick that football. I just want to know where dad is."

Sammy sighed. "Well, don't ask me, because I can't remember anything from this Christmas."

"You think you're gonna get stuck here?"

The older man shrugged. "No idea. Maybe."

"Don't think dad's gonna like that."

"Dad's not here."

"He will be."

"You said it yourself, Dean," Sam pointed out, "dad misses birthdays and Easter and Thanksgiving. He usually misses Christmas, too. He's not coming back."

"But he promised!"

_Now who's the broken record?_ Sam wondered to himself as he again picked up that desperate tone in his brother's voice. "He'll probably be here. I mean, he was back by New Year's Eve last year, wasn't he?"

Dean shrugged. "He came back on Christmas Day, yeah."

"Well there ya go," Sammy smiled, "he'll be back eventually."

"He was drunk," Dean muttered, "and he told me… he just said some stuff he shouldn't have said and then he passed out, all right?"

"What did he tell you?"

The teenager sighed, hanging his head. "He made fun of my cooking."

"Your cooking? You were offended because our drunkard of a dad insulted your cooking?"

"It's not like we had money for anything good, and I wasn't expecting company. I just made a couple of sandwiches for myself. He didn't like 'em."

"Where was I?"

"You were at Robby's place. He was last year's Jimmy."

"Oh."

"You had fun, though," Dean said, offering a reassuring smile that seemed a little too fake.

"Well," Sam said slowly, "I'm thinking about sticking around this year."

"Really?" There was a new tone of voice, one Sam hadn't heard from his brother in quite a while. It was hopeful.

He shrugged. "Yeah, you know, if dad doesn't come back in time. I'm not gonna leave you alone on Christmas."

"But-"

"Not anymore," Sam amended.

"What about me? In the future? Won't I be alone twelve years from now if you stay here?"

"I think you can handle it. Besides, for all we know, you woke up the other day to find a twelve year old in the room with you."

Dean smiled. "What if dad does get back in time? Would you still stay?"

He shrugged again. "I'd think about it. If dad wanted me to."

"Well, what if _I_ wanted you to?"

"I thought you just wanted dad."

Dean averted his eyes, gazing at the flickering television without really seeing it. "Even when he's here," he said slowly, "dad's not always the most attentive. Not to me, at least. That's why I didn't want you to go to Jimmy's. Dad'll be more invested if you're around. He'll be happier. He won't come stumbling in drunk. He loves you."

The last sentence was a whisper, but Sam had caught it. He was starting to worry that his stomach would soon find itself permanently knotted. "He loves you, too," he attempted weakly.

Dean shook his head. "Not since I was nine." He looked over at Sam with wide eyes, hurt eyes, scared eyes. "He couldn't care less about me. That's why I have to keep you safe. That's why you can't leave." He swallowed hard. "You're the only thing keeping him around. If you leave, he will, too."

Sam stared at his brother, the truth of the statement hitting home. Dean was right. He was right, and if he'd thought that way since he was sixteen…

"He did, didn't he? He left after you did?"

"He went looking for the thing that killed mom."

"Did he come back?" Dean asked softly.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. He came back."

"After _you _came back?"

The older man paused. He had left his family. Four years later, John had done the same. The only difference was that Dean was the only one left to leave at that point. Sam had gone back after Jessica's death, and a few months later, John had shown up again. Dean was right.

The teen shook his head. "I try," he admitted, "so hard. I just want to be perfect. I've done everything I can think of, I've followed every order. Sam, what's wrong with me?"

"You… there's nothing wrong with you," Sam replied after a second's pause, a moment's hesitation. That silence had seemed to drag on forever, though. It had told his brother more than a few stunned words of reassurance ever could. Nothing was wrong with him, and yet, somehow, everything was wrong with him.

"He told me," Dean whispered slowly, as if trying to decide whether or not it was worth it to take the plunge, "he said that a good son would have made him a real Christmas dinner. I want to be good."

Sam just stared at him, awestruck. There was definitely something magical about Christmas, something that brought long-hidden secrets bubbling from behind his brother's towering mental walls. It was almost too much to take.

"He tells me to be faster and stronger and smarter, and then he turns around and slaps you on the back and goes to your school plays and laughs with your teachers about how good you are. He never even went to my school conferences… _or _the plays. He was always busy."

"He was saving people." Sam couldn't believe that he'd said it, couldn't believe that he'd actually defended his father, a man he'd hated for most of his life.

"They were more important than me."

The older man closed his eyes and sighed. "They were innocent."

"I was, too. A long time ago. And then… he told me to take care of you. And I made sure you never had to worry about the monsters or the danger or anything. I thought I did good. Wasn't it enough? Nine years? You got to be a kid for nine years. And then you found out… and dad found out you found out and he yelled at me. I tried, though. Wasn't that good enough?"

"It was."

"Then why'd you leave?"

"I had to get away from dad. I had to try and be normal."

Dean dropped his gaze again. "Could I? Do you think I could be like everyone else? Do you think I could go with you?"

"I think it would be hard."

"But I could do it. Because I've thought about it. Just leaving in the middle of the night and running until I thought dad would never find us again and then starting over." He looked back up at Sam. "I could pass for eighteen. I could be your legal guardian."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Dean smiled sadly. "Because I know you won't tell. Not like before. Not like with Jimmy. You're different now. You're older. I can trust you."

Sam sighed, slumping his shoulders. Had all of that really been pent up inside his brother? Had it really all just come spilling out in a torrential confession that left him feeling numb inside? Was he really being expected to not look at his brother differently after that? Because to look at him differently would be to act like his father. And Dean and John had their problems.

"When do you think dad's gonna get home?" Dean asked again, back to pacing around his chair, as if the conversation had never happened.

o0o0o0o0o0o

It had been a grainy TV and leftovers kind of day in the current Winchester house. There had been no more talk of abandonment or emotional damage, no more talking about futilely attempting to fix what had never been broken, but many more mentions of their father's whereabouts.

Sam rolled onto his side to glance at the digital clock that sat between the room's two beds. It was almost midnight. Almost Christmas Eve. And still no sign of John.

He rolled back over, staring up at the dark ceiling, watching shadows play across the plaster. He'd been sitting numbly in front of the television set for most of the day, just trying to process what his brother had told him.

Dean was right. He just couldn't get over that fact. Dean was right… in his own, twisted way, of course. His mind had put the pieces together, but it had skewed some things, placed them incorrectly. He'd jumped to conclusions and had stumbled across an eerie coincidence.

He looked back at the clock, knowing that he should get some sleep, but unable to quiet his busy mind. The numbers changed as he gazed at them, ushering in a new day. The other bed creaked.

He stayed still, thinking he might have disturbed his brother's rest with his own tossing and turning. When he didn't hear anything else, he let himself relax, his eyes sliding shut, mind finally giving up its desperate attempt to figure out the mystery that was Dean Winchester.

Sam drifted slowly off to sleep around 12:30, one last sound resonating before he finally let oblivion take him (or maybe after- it could have been a dream): his brother's voice whispering, "I wish…"

o0o0o0o0o0o

John Winchester wasn't entirely sure how he'd gotten home. Most of the drive had been a blur, as if something was pushing him away from his unfinished hunt, He'd headed out of the forest where he'd been tracking the ghoul around 12:30 and made it back to Clarkson in record time.

He crept up the stairs to the room that his sons shared, anxious to see the surprise written on their young faces when he woke them. Sure, he'd abandoned a hunt, but the ghoul wasn't bloodthirsty and it was cold outside, which would stop people from wandering into its territory. Besides, for some reason, he just couldn't bring himself to leave once he'd stepped through the door and into the small house. Not to mention that it was Christmas.

He nudged the door to his sons' room open, peeked inside, and instantly switched back into Hunter Mode.


	8. Chapter 8

Guys, I hope you know what a special chapter this is. it's the first one I'm posting from my new laptop!!!!!

* * *

Sam awoke to the unsettling sensation of the cool barrel of a gun being pressed to his head. "Dean?" he managed to croak as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he was able to identify his hopeful murderer, "dad's home."

"What did you just call me?" John hissed, pushed the gun farther into Sam's temple, as if trying to break through the younger man's skull to find the answers nestled there.

"Dean!" Sam practically shouted, thankful to have found his voice. The teen jumped up instantly, reaching under his pillow and sliding off his bed in one fluid motion. His hunting knife glinted in the pale moonlight that shone through the window as he slashed out at the late-night intruder, unable to see more of the man than a simple silhouette.

John recoiled, drawing the gun from his youngest son's head, but wasn't fast enough to completely dodge the blade. Sam rolled from the bed and hit the floor hard, army-crawling toward the light switch as Dean kicked the gun from his father's weakened grasp. The teen dropped down into the shadows and swept John's feet from under him. He was on top of the older man, knife blade pressed dangerously to the intruder's throat within seconds.

"Dean," Sam panted, white-hot adrenaline coursing through his veins as he hit the switch, "it's dad."

The bulbs flickered a bit before illuminating the room. Dean was staring up at Sam, confusion written in his face. "Dad?" He looked down.

"Yeah," John growled, scowling as his oldest boy slid off of him, "_dad_."

"Sorry," Dean muttered as he returned to his bed to stow his knife, "but it was dark, and-"

"Who's this?" John asked, "and where's your brother?"

"Um, sir?" Dean said slowly, straightening up as he addressed the imposing adult, "that _is_ Sammy."

John glanced between the boys, his gaze lingering on Sam's face. "Kitchen," he hissed, "_now_. Explain."

The brothers nodded simultaneously, trudging out of the room and down the stairs, flipping on the lights as they went. They sat across from each other, their eyes lowered. When John joined them, taking a seat between them, he did not look happy.

"Dean," he said slowly, his voice holding a calm air that both boys identified instantly as false. He turned to Sam, eyes skeptical and appraising. "Sam?"

"Yes, sir?" Sam replied instantly, realizing suddenly how much he'd missed having those words on his lips since his father's passing.

"Where's my son?"

"I know it's-"

"Where is he?"

"He's right there," Dean blurted, pointing at Sam.

"You will speak only when spoken to," John snapped at the teen before turning back to Sam. "How old are you?"

"24."

"What's your birthday?"

"May 2, 1983."

"How old were you when your mother died?"

"Six months. Dean was four years old, and you were about 28."

"Anyone could have found that out," John said, still glaring at Sam with a look he typically reserved for ghosts and goblins.

Sam shrugged. "You asked the questions." And there it was, that old hostility. Even after everything that had happened, all that pain, that regret, that sense of too-little-too-late, it was still there, just looking for an outlet.

"All right. _You_ ask the questions, then."

"I will. Where'd Dean get that necklace?"

John glanced over at the teenager, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the amulet that had hung around the boy's neck for three straight years. "I… he found it, didn't he?"

Sam shook his head. "I gave it to him." Dean nodded in agreement. "What's my favorite food?"

"Pizza."

"Spaghetti-Os," both boys replied.

"What's my favorite color?" Sam asked.

"Blue?"

"Purple," Dean said, shaking his head.

"_Burgundy_," Sam corrected, "but you were closer than he was."

"What the hell kinda color is burgundy?" Dean asked.

"It's better than purple."

"It's the same thing."

"Is not."

"Is, too."

"Is not."

"Is-"

"Dean," John interrupted, "stop. I get it. He's your brother."

"How'd you know?" Sam asked.

John smiled, relaxing a bit. "No one else has the patience or hard head needed to bicker with him like that without strangling him."

Sam matched his father's grin and settled back in his chair. "Don't think I haven't considered it."

"So," Dean began, choosing to ignore that last comment, "now that that's out of the way, you have any idea what we're dealing with?"

"Well, what do _you_ think we're dealing with?" John asked, unable to mask the subtle malice in his voice.

"I'm not sure, sir."

"Well, trust your instincts," his father advised.

"Sir?"

"The same ones you trusted when you attacked me."

Dean sighed, hanging his head. "Dad-"

"You should have known it was me, son."

"It was dark," Sam defended.

"I trust you-"

"To take care of _me_," Sam shot back, sticking up for his brother, who looked to be in desperate need of defense, "and I screamed. He woke up and protected me. He just did what you've always told him to."

"Keep out of this, Sammy."

"My name's Sam, and you shouldn't be yelling at him. He didn't do anything wrong."

"I'm not yelling, and he _attacked_ me."

"Just like you trained him to."

"I-"

"Hold on!" Dean shouted suddenly, effectively cutting off his father's rebuttal, "take a break, opposite corners, chill out." Sam and John both stared at him. "Look, we need to calm down before we can even _hope_ to figure this out, ok?"

"Figure it out yourselves," John growled, standing up so abruptly that his chair fell to the floor with a clatter, "I'm going to bed." He stalked from the kitchen, glowering.

Dean slumped down in his chair with a sigh. "He doesn't mean it. He'll help. He just needs to calm down first."

Sam stood up, hating himself for picking yet another fight with his father, especially after the older man's death. He nodded.

"You did good," he muttered softly, gently patting his brother's shoulder as he moved past the boy and up toward their shared room. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught Dean's astonished gaze.


	9. Chapter 9

All right, guys. Things pick up from here on out, I promise.

Oh, and I ahven't done this yet and I feel horrible about it, with the holidays and all, so thanks for reviewing. it really did make my Christmas bright and my yuletide gay :)

* * *

Dean had been right. When Sam awoke to the smell of crisping toast, John was already on the phone, surrounded by mountains of books.

"He found anything yet?" Sam asked, sitting at the kitchen table and watching his brother fumble with a butter knife.

"Not yet," Dean admitted, "but he will. So don't worry."

"I'm not worried. Just curious. I mean, whatever did this to me had to be packing some power. I just want to know what we pissed off."

"And how to avoid it or any of its friends, right?" Dean guessed, setting a small plate of toast in front of his brother before turning back to the counter to make some more.

"Exactly," Sam agreed as John entered the room and flopped down into a chair.

"Gypsies," the older man huffed.

"Gypsies?" Dean asked, walking back to the table with two plates balanced precariously in his hands, "what about 'em?"

"After I left for this hunt," John explained, grabbing a piece of toast from his plate and staring at it, "I ran across a small werewolf problem. Something was killing people and animals in a little rural town on the way to the ghoul's haunting ground. Thought I'd check it out. Found a group of gypsies."

"And one of them cursed the werewolf?" Sam asked.

John looked up at him with tired eyes. "One of them _was_ the werewolf."

"You think they did this as payback for offing their furry little friend?" Dean asked through a mouthful of toast.

"That's what Joshua thinks, anyway."

"And you want to go find them and get this reversed?" Sam asked, discovering at the most inconvenient time that John wasn't the only member of the family incapable of keeping hostility out of his voice.

"Not until after Christmas," John said almost immediately after being asked the angry question. He looked as shocked about his response as both of his sons did. "What I meant," he amended quickly, "was that we're gonna spend the holiday together this year."

Sam stared at his father, who looked thoroughly confused, before turning to Dean, who seemed to be having a hard time keeping a wide smile off of his face. "Can I talk to you?" he asked, grabbing Dean's arm and pulling the boy roughly from the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

"What?" Dean asked, annoyed, as he struggled from the taller man's grip, "what is it?"

"What did you do?" Sam hissed, glancing briefly into the kitchen to see his father scratching his head.

"I didn't do anything."

"I know you did. What was it?"

"I… don't know what you're talking about, Sammy."

"Look, I won't be mad, I swear," Sam attempted, "I just want to know how you managed to get dad back and make him stay back."

Dean swallowed hard, looking into the kitchen at his father. "I did what you told me to do. I made a wish. I just did what you told me to."

Sam sighed, letting himself relax a bit. "Ok. You know he's gonna be mad when he finds out, right?"

"He doesn't have to find out. He can't find out. You can't tell him." He looked up at his brother with scared, pleading eyes, "please. You can't tell."

Sam realized at that moment that his brother didn't look sixteen. He looked four. He looked scared and sad and lonely. He looked like he'd just lost his mother, but somehow found his saving grace in a responsibility that shouldn't have been thrust upon him. He looked like he needed a friend.

"Ok. I won't tell. But you should warn me the next time you're thinking about doing something like this, all right?"

"Sure thing," Dean grinned, heading back into the kitchen. Sam watched him go, wondering how many times during the years that four-year-old had come out to play, to beg, to plead, to get his hopes up only to have them crushed beneath the weight of reality. And why hadn't Sam noticed if he had?

o0o0o0o0o

Sam pulled his nose out of the ancient text John had assigned to him long enough to marvel at the way his father could get Dean to do anything- even read. The teenager was currently engrossed in an old copy of Stephen King's Thinner and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the storyline.

"Man, Sammy," he chuckled as he dog-eared a page and set the book down, "you got lucky. Time travel seems tame when you put it next to wasting away, super zits, and crocodile scales over 100 percent of your body."

"You know that stuff's just made-up, right?" Sam asked.

"I dunno. Guy's got some stuff right. Besides, the movies are awesome. Can't go wrong when Jack Nicholson's involved."

"That movie was nothing like the book," Sam pointed out.

"True," Dean admitted, "but that doesn't make it any less cool."

"Whatever," the older man muttered, looking back down into the book he'd been given, a dusty tome all about gypsy custom and lore.

"So," Dean said after a pause, "how's the research coming?"

"It would be coming faster if you'd let me read."

"Come on, man. This is boring. We know what did this to you, and we're pretty sure we can get them to reverse it if we just give them the right incentive. The only reason dad's got us back in our make-shift library is because he feels guilty just sitting around the house and doing the whole quality-time thing."

"Gee, I wonder whose fault that is."

Dean flinched. "Fine. Keep reading. But I've got something better to do." He pushed himself away from the table and the pile of old books that sat perched atop it.

"What?" Sam asked, feeling suddenly guilty.

Dean grinned. "Wait right here." He jogged from the kitchen and up the stairs to their room. When he returned, he was holding an old VHS box in his hands.

"A video tape?" Sam asked. He hadn't realized it, but the old models had been phased out over the years. He wasn't even sure they still made the chunky, magnetic things. Apparently, though, the time period a vengeful gypsy had dropped him in hadn't yet discovered the wonders of compact discs.

"Not just any video tape," Dean said, holding it up for Sam to see. "_How the Grinch Stole Christmas_. What do you say we drop the research and watch it, for old times' sake?"

Sam sighed, eyeing the tape warily. It had seemed like an eternity since he'd watched the old show with his brother, even though it had only really been a year. But did that year even count? He hadn't exactly been himself.

"I dunno," he said slowly. It wasn't like the research was entirely busy work to keep them occupied while they stayed in the house and waited for Christmas to pass. It could be important later on, when they finally found the band of gypsies.

Dean had that look on his face, though, the one that said Sam had promised long-ago that watching _The Grinch _would be their tradition, the only one they had. It said that he'd given up on it, opted to be normal, to spend the holidays with his friends. It said that this was a chance to change all that, to prove once and for all that it was only a phase and he would come to his senses later on in life.

Of course, Sam knew that wasn't the case, that he would leave and never want to come back, that the movie would only be watched by one Winchester each year. But Dean didn't need to know that.

"All right," he said, closing the book and following his brother to the living room, "I guess I could use a break."

o0o0o0o0o0o

Sam gazed out the window at the fresh, undisturbed layer of snow that had fallen the night before. He'd never really bothered to take the time to marvel at the beauty of new snow on Christmas day, but something about this Christmas was different. This Christmas, he was learning to pay attention.

Soft footfalls sounded on the steps and he turned as Dean walked into the room. "You're alive," the teenager noted, flopping down on his bed and stretching out, "good."

"You thought something happened?"

"Well, you kinda beat it outta the kitchen after lunch, and you've been quiet all morning."

"Just thinking, I guess."

"About that party you're missing?"

"No," Sam said, shaking his head and sitting on the edge of his brother's bed, "not really. I was thinking about this. Everything. It's different than I remember."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'm just wondering why I never noticed some of this stuff until now."

"What stuff?"

Sam grinned. "You pace when you get nervous. My friends were total ass-wipes. Dad's never around. I can't have a conversation with the man without yelling at him."

"Don't forget the fact that I'm your shadow," Dean added.

Sam nodded. The boy had spent most of the day hanging around him, both of them trying their hardest to avoid John at all costs. Fortunately, it had worked, and they'd stayed out of their confused father's way, which meant they hadn't had to try and explain his unusual urge to remain home for the holidays.

"Hadn't noticed," the older man muttered.

"Come on, you noticed. It's hard to ignore an annoying teenager hanging around you all day."

"After a while," Sammy grinned, nudging his brother's foot with his elbow, "I forgot you were there. You're not exactly memorable."

"Oh, thanks," Dean snorted.

They sat in their room for a while, gazing out he window at a snow-covered tree, both lost in thought. Sunlight streamed into the room, illuminating even the darkest corners and dimmest nooks, proving without a doubt that it was a special day, that this year would be different that all of the others.

"Can I ask you something?" Dean asked , still looking out at the sparkling snow.

"Shoot."

"I need a favor," the boy proceeded slowly, "I need you to get dad out of the house for a couple of hours today."

"Why?" Sam questioned, dreading the kind of damage he could do if left alone with his father.

"It's a secret," Dean said, "but it's really important. I just need a couple of hours, ok?"

That desperate tone was back in his voice, and Sam was finding it harder to resist each time he used it. "Fine. But he might not come back in one piece."

"After the verbal thrashing you gave him yesterday," Dean grinned, "I'm not expecting him to." And that was that.


	10. Chapter 10

Whew. Sorry about the slight delay. Had a family Christmas thing yesterday and my aunt and uncle don't have the internat (let alone wi-fi) at their house. Hope this chapter makes up for the slight tardiness :)

* * *

"I need to talk to you," Sam said as he entered his father's bedroom, his head down, eyes watching his shoes, "outside."

"I can't leave," John muttered, something in the tone of his voice making Sam raise his head in alarm. The older man was laying on his bed, arms crossed under his pillows, staring morosely up at the ceiling.

"What?"

"I tried to, last night," he said, "I got in the truck after you boys fell asleep and I tried to get out of town. I made it about a mile outside the Clarkson limit before I just couldn't take it anymore. This feeling… like something was wrong back here, like something could happen. I had to come back." He sat up, his eyes wide, staring at Sam. "I can't leave."

"You're imagining things," Sammy suggested, trying on a fake smile, "you've been under a lot of stress lately. Coming home in the middle of the night to find an adult where a preteen was the week before can do that to a person."

John shook his head. "I'm not even sure how I got here in the first place. It's a blur. You think it was the gypsies?"

"I think you need a vacation," Sam stated simply, crossing the room and grabbing his father's arm. He struggled to get the older man off of the bed. "Some fresh air'll do you good. Trust me."

"I can't-"

"We'll stay inside the city limits, I swear. I just want to talk to you."

John finally gave up his struggle and let himself be pulled from the room. Sam caught his brother's eye as he headed out the door and knew instantly that Dean was thinking the same thing he was. Their father was probably drunk. If that was the case, then Sam had been right; some fresh air _would_ so him some good.

"Where we going?" John asked as they walked down the tiny house's compact driveway, past the Impala and a newer-looking version of John's rust bucket of a truck.

"Window shopping," Sam replied, glad that he no longer had to pull his father along. John just shrugged, which his son took as a good sign. If he had, indeed, been drunk, he probably would have mentioned the fact that they neither needed nor had the money to afford new windows.

"What do you want to talk to me about?" John asked after a silence that lasted from the edge of the driveway to the edge of Main Street.

"Just wanted to say that I'm sorry for picking a fight last night. It's not my place."

"You're right. It's not." John admitted as he glanced into the store windows that lined the slippery sidewalks, "but I'm just as much to blame."

Sam nearly fell backwards. "What?"

"It was late, I was tired and confused and… it just wasn't a good time. For either of us."

"Wow," the younger man marveled, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked through the bustling town with his father, ducking to avoid low-hanging Christmas decorations that had been draped over light poles, "never thought I'd hear you say anything like that. Makes me wonder, what is it about Christmas that brings out the honesty in people?"

"Maybe it's not Christmas," John ventured, "maybe it's you."

"Me?"

"Yeah," the older man nodded, "you. You just look trustworthy for some reason. Innocent. You always have. It could come in useful."

"You're saying that people trust me because I look like I can be trusted?"

"Exactly. And it's not just that. No offence or anything, but at twelve, you were a handful. To tell the truth, it's actually kinda nice having another adult to talk to."

"Well, there's Dean," Sam pointed out.

John shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Oh, come on. He's responsible and trustworthy, and as much an adult as you are."

"Usually. Lately, though, I think he's been going through a phase or something."

"What kind of phase?"

His father sighed. "He's just been so selfish lately."

Sam fought back the urge to stop in his tracks, the statement seemed so ridiculous. Dean was the most selfless person Sam knew, no matter the time period. "You're kidding, right?"

"I know the kid's your hero," John said, exasperation sounding in his voice, "but that just blinds you to the truth."

"You're not around him as much as I am. You don't know him the way I do."

"I know that he's willing to do anything to get his way nowadays."

"Wanting to spend Christmas as a family doesn't make him selfish."

"It does when he whined and begged and blocked the door until I promised him I'd be home. It does when I'm planning on running a little late, on finishing up the hunt I'd prepared for because I got sidetracked by some gypsies and their werewolf problem. It does when I randomly wind up back at home with barely any memory of how I got there and _he couldn't be happier_."

"You think he had something to do with this?" Sam asked, struggling to keep from lashing out at the older man.

"I think he might have. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"No. And I've spent every day with him since waking up here. He wouldn't have had time to go behind my back."

"What about before you got here?"

"He doesn't have anything to do with this," Sam said again, more forcefully this time, straightening up to his full height and staring down at his father, who look up at him with an unreadable expression.

"You got tall," he commented.

Sam sighed, letting his shoulders slump as he was hit with a painful sense of déjà vu. _"Don't think I didn't consider it."_ Did that make Dean selfish? Or just angry and willing to throw a low blow?

"Yeah. I did." He glanced at his watch, suddenly realizing that he'd never asked his brother what time it was, if he'd had to reset it. "Um…"

"It's getting late," John muttered, "we should head back." Sam nodded his agreement and followed his father as the older man turned and pushed through the crowds of bustling last-minute shoppers.

He had to wonder, as he followed the father he'd lost almost two years before through a year he'd left behind in his attempt to flee his past, if maybe John was right. Dean had had a hand in keeping their father in town for the holidays, so who was to say that he wouldn't try something a little more extreme?

Of course, the young hunter's mind argued with him on that point. This was _Dean._ He was selfless. He cared too much about others and not enough about himself. He was willing to spend Christmas and birthdays and every days alone in order to do what he believed to be right by his brother and father. He had long ago given up any selfish wants for them. He was bullied by Sam's friends, lied to by his own father. No, he wouldn't resort to extremes to get what he wanted. He preferred to suffer alone and in silence. He wouldn't drag anyone else down with him.


	11. Chapter 11

Even though it's only seven minutes past eleven here, I just watched the ball drop in Ney York City. Happy New Year, faithful readers! May it be filled with fictional demons, monsters, ghosts and two very real, very hot hunters!!!!!

* * *

It wasn't what he'd expected. Sure, Dean had said that he'd had a surprise planned, but it had been the last thing on Sam's mind while he'd been talking with his father. Besides, how could Dean have found the time? They hadn't been gone _that_ long.

"What the Hell?" John asked as he stepped into the house, his eyes darting over the magical wonders that were beheld when he entered.

Sam edged through the door behind him, a smile creeping across his face as he took in everything that had been added to the house since their departure. Garland and ornaments had been hung in the hallway, twinkling lights bordered the ceiling, Christmas music drifted softly through the home, and the sweet smells of a slowly cooking dinner filled the small area. "Dean," he whispered.

"Dean?" John repeated, in anything _but_ a whisper. In less than a second, an unruly blond head poked around the corner.

"You're back," Dean muttered, wiping traces of flour off his face and glancing nervously over his shoulder, "it's early. You shouldn't be back yet."

"What is this?" John demanded.

Dean glanced around at the decorations. "Uh, well, there's some garland, and some lights, and-"

"That's not what I meant. Where'd you get this?"

"Um… the store, sir."

John narrowed his eyes. "Is there more?"

"Yes, sir," Dean nodded slowly, "there's dinner in the oven, and I was just about to start decorating the tree. You wanna help?" He smiled nervously, the smudge of flour on his nose and cheeks, made larger by his attempt to wipe it off, gave him an innocent air that wouldn't normally fit.

His father sighed. "No, Dean. I don't."

The boy's face fell. "Why not?"

"How much?"

"Sir?"

"How much did all of this cost?" John asked, his voice serious.

Dean gulped. "About three hundred."

Sam glanced between the two, a little confused. "Dad?"

"Stay out of this," John snapped, briefly glancing at Sam before returning his attention to the teenager. "Three hundred?"

Dean nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And where'd you get that kind of money?"

"I didn't steal it, if that's what you think," the boy blurted, the statement followed by a pause just long enough to let everyone present know that that was indeed what John had thought. "Dad, no. I _earned_ it. I saved up from odd jobs and spare change I found on the streets. I saved up all year for this. Come on, just help me decorate."

"You've had that money all year?" John asked, his voice strained, face blank, expression unreadable.

"Yes, sir."

"You had it when we were sleeping in the car because we couldn't even afford a good motel room? You had it when I had to get a job to pay for food? You had it when your brother needed money for new shoes after his old ones got shredded? You had it then?"

Dean hung his head. "Yes, sir," he said slowly, "but I thought-"

"You thought wrong. I needed that money. Your _brother_ needed that money. And you withheld it from us?"

"I got a tree," the boy attempted.

John shook his head. "We slept in the car for a _week_, Dean. Is it really worth it?"

"I made dinner," Dean whispered, "got a turkey and everything."

"Enjoy that," John advised coldly as he turned and pulled the door open.

"Where are you going?" Sam demanded. His father didn't reply, just slammed the door and headed down the walk toward the driveway.

"I don't get it," Dean muttered, sliding down the wall until he was sitting against it, "he should have wanted to stay. I wished…"

"You wanted him to come home," Sam reasoned, joining his brother on the floor, "you didn't say anything about wanting to celebrate. Right?"

"Right," the boy sighed, hanging his head and shaking it slowly. "Stupid. Stupid. Stupid."

"You're not stupid," Sam said, "you couldn't have known he would do that."

"But he always does. Every year, it's the same thing. He's probably half-way to the local bar by now, getting to ready to drown all thoughts of his stupid, wasteful son in Christmastime loneliness. He'll stumble back late tonight or early tomorrow, sleep for half a day, and then take out his hangover on us. On _me_."

"Maybe he will," Sammy agreed, "but that's just because he doesn't know what he's missing."

Dean looked up at him with mistrusting eyes. "Really?"

The older man nodded. "Really." He sighed, leaning his head back against the cool wall and letting his eyes slide shut as the sweet aroma of cooking food surrounded him. "So, you made dinner?"

"Yeah," Dean replied, "a real Christmas dinner. Just like dad wanted. Why?"

Sammy smiled. "I think your real Christmas dinner is burning."

Dean shot to his feet and ran into the kitchen, sliding across the floor in his socks as Sam began to laugh.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Sam looked at the tree, appraising it, marveling at the fact that it had branches and needles and smelled strongly of pine. "You sure there isn't a squirrel or something in it?" he asked, itching to dig through the branches, but almost scared that a fuzzy little woodland creature would jump out at him.

"Dude," Dean grinned, carefully setting a large box on the floor by the tree, "it's fake."

"Then why does it smell like-?"

Dean pulled a large, tree-shaped piece of cardboard from the box he'd recently brought out of their room. "Air freshener," he replied, "strong, huh?"

"Why do you…? Never mind." Sam dropped to his knees and opened up the box, squinting as the items inside glinted and glittered in the light. Ornaments, big and small, new ropes of garland, handfuls of tinsel, a tangled ball of small lights, and a modest star had been tossed into the small space, left to fend for themselves and find their own space amongst the jumble. "Someone needs to teach you how to organize things."

"No better time than the present," Dean grinned, pulling garland and tinsel and fragile ornaments from the box.

"Dinner was great, by the way," Sam said. He meant it, too. Sure, the turkey had been a little dry, but it was nowhere near _Christmas Vacation _style. Everything else had turned out perfectly, and the brothers had spent the time it took to eat and clean up talking about past hunts, towns, friends, and holidays.

"Only made better by the company," Dean added, wrinkling his nose as he pulled the ball of lights from the box. "Uh, this is for you. Merry Christmas."

"Oh, thanks," Sam scoffed, taking the lights and beginning to untangle them. "So, really, how'd you get the money for this?"

"I told you. Or, I told dad, at least. I earned it. Shoveling driveways for old ladies, helping neighbors carry groceries in, babysitting little brats."

"Don't remember you doing any of that."

"That's because I'm sneaky. Only did it when you and dad were both gone. Couldn't have you catching on, could I?"

"Guess not. And you really went through all the trouble to go out and buy this stuff?"

Dean nodded. "Sure did." He picked up a couple of ornaments and hung them on the tree. "This is gonna take forever without dad."

"Forget dad," Sam advised, giving up on the tangled lights and grabbing a shimmering rope of garland, "we can totally handle this." He started wrapping the sparkly stuff around the tree, beginning up top and working his way down.

Dean sighed and went back to the box for more ornaments. Sam knelt down and continued wrapping the garland, trying to keep it looking as nice and neat as possible, and doing a horrible job of it. He finally got to the base of the tree, and had just turned to grab some ornaments when something shiny hit him in the face.

Sam spit out a mouthful of tinsel and glared at his brother, who just smiled and shrugged. "What?" Dean asked innocently.

"You know they put lead in that stuff, right?"

"Not since the sixties," the boy defended, "you'll live."

Brushing more of the shimmering threads off his shoulder, Sam reached into the box and grabbed his own handful. "You know, of course, that this means war."

o0o0o0o0o0o

Dean cocked his head to the side to inspect his handiwork. He wasn't too surprised when a gob of tinsel fell from the top of his head onto the floor. It had been a wicked battle, a war with only a single casualty.

In truth, he felt sorry for the tree. It looked horrible. A single strand of silvery garland had been draped around it, spiraling from its head to its base. Ornaments had been hung haphazardly in the aftermath of the tinsel war, and most were lying beneath the tree. The tangled ball of lights sat under the bulking green plastic mass of Christmas cheer, weakly illuminated and looking like a poorly-wrapped present. The tinsel itself hung in large clumps from the tree and littered the floor. Their father would not be pleased.

"Rockefeller, this is not," Dean observed.

"Dude," Sam snorted, "forget Rockefeller, it's not even 'Christmas in Nebraska' material."

"Even dear ol' Chuck's tree looked better."

"This is just sad."

"And cluttered."

"And sloppy."

"And ours." Dean reached back into the box, which had appeared to be empty, and pulled out a simple golden star. "You wanna do the honors?"

Sam shrugged. "You bought the tree."

"But you're taller."

"I could-"

"Don't even think about it," Dean cut him off, "you're not lifting me up."

"I was gonna say I could look for a ladder or grab a chair or something, but I like your idea better." Before Dean could even begin to protest, Sam had grabbed him firmly around the waist and hoisted him into the air, perching the teen precariously on his shoulder.

It was funny, but the first thing that came to his mind was that Dean was lighter than he'd expected. The second was that his head hurt, because Dean had practically clubbed him with the star.

"Just put it on," he encouraged, making a mental note to dip his brother's hand in a glass of warm water later that night. Dean did as he was told, leaning slowly forward, so as not to accidentally topple his brother into their sorry excuse for a Christmas tree, and set the star at the top.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Sam asked, smiling brightly.

"Put me down." Dean grumbled. The older man obliged, still grinning like an idiot, and stood back to admire their work. It really was pretty, in a dysfunctional sort of way. He liked it.

"So, what now?" he asked, turning to look down at Dean, but finding an empty space where his brother had once been. "Dean?"

"Can't leave you alone for one second, can I?" Dean griped, stumbling around the corner from the hallway with a large load of poorly-wrapped boxes in his hands, "and I thought _I_ was needy."

"What's all this?"

"Presents," Dean responded, disappearing again down the hall.

"Presents?" Sam repeated, suddenly getting an unpleasant sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Yep," Dean said, re-entering the room with another load of boxes, "wouldn't be Christmas without 'em." He set the load down and began to sort through it, dividing the packages into two groups. "Here you go," he slid one of the piles toward Sam, grinning wide, "just keep in mind that I was shopping for moody twelve-year-old."

Sammy lowered himself to the floor and shook his head slowly, sending a few strands of tinsel see-sawing to the ground. "I didn't get you anything."

Dean shrugged. "It's not about you giving. It's about you receiving."

Sam sighed. He could hear the disappointment in the kid's voice, the tone that said he hadn't expected anything, but would always have liked being proven wrong. "Maybe I-"

"I doubt it," Dean interrupted before Sam could even attempt to voice an apology, "besides, I'm used to it. You've been out of town the past couple of Christmases and in the rush you just forgot. At least this year you have a valid excuse." He slid the other pile of boxes under the tree. Sam caught a glimpse of the name on the tags. They were for his father. "Now, come on. Open 'em."

Feeling guilty, Sam picked up one of the packages and shook it a bit. Something inside clunked loudly. He glanced quickly at his brother before tearing into the wrapping, which seemed to be more tape than paper. After nearly a minute of struggling, Sam had unearthed a slightly battered shoebox. He pulled it open, revealing a bright white pair of sneakers. He looked back at his brother.

Dean shrugged. "Like dad said, you needed shoes. I figured you'd like new ones better than some old hand-me-downs or something from Goodwill."

The older man grinned. "I remember these."

"Remember when you started wearing them?" Dean asked, that half-nervous, half-hopeful sound resting just under the surface of his still-deepening voice.

Sam shook his head. "Not really. Highlight of my childhood, though, till a rabid hellhound got hold of them."

"Go ahead and open the rest," Dean encouraged, smiling broadly at the knowledge that something he'd supplied his brother with could be cherished in that way, remembered for so many years to come.

Offering up a sad smile, Sam pulled another gift closer, hating himself for forgetting to buy anything for his brother, in his past _and_ present.


	12. Chapter 12

Only a couple more days before the end of break. i don't want to go back. Thankfully, I've still got quite a few chapters left to post, so the holiday doesn't ahve to end.

Thanks again for all the awesome reviews!

* * *

"No buts," John Winchester bellowed, glaring down at his sons- well, _one_ of his sons; the other was too tall to glare _down_ at.

"Why can't we go?" Dean asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest and flashing a determined look at his father.

"Because I said so," John replied simply. He rubbed his head, still pounding with the memories of the night before, and closed his bloodshot eyes against the harsh light of the morning after Christmas.

"That's not a good enough reason."

"What do you want me to say, Dean?" his father asked, temper flaring.

"I just want to hear something that makes sense. I mean, we can help with this. The tracking, the hunting, the research-"

"I don't want something to happen to you."

"I've been out plenty of times."

"I don't want something to happen to _him_," John amended, nodding toward Sam.

"He's 24, dad," the teenager pointed out, "he can take care of himself."

"What if he can't? What if something happens to him? If we can't send him back or change him back or whatever the hell we have to do? What then, Dean?"

"Well, I-"

"You are gonna stay here and clean up the mess you made."

"Mess?" Dean asked.

John nodded. "We're not going to stay in this town forever. We can't leave the house with all of this crap tacked up everywhere. While I go find our gypsy friend, you boys are going to clean up. Got it?"

"It's not a mess," Dean began, but Sam cut him off.

"Yes, sir. Will do. Drive safe."

John cocked an eyebrow at him, appraising the unexpected respect that this older version of his youngest boy was giving him. "Right," he said slowly, "I packed last night. The last I saw the band, they were heading up north. I shouldn't be gone long."

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but one dirty look from his father made him think better of it. "Yes, sir," he sighed. As soon as John had left the room, the teen turned on his brother. "What did you do that for?"

"He was about to snap," Sam defended.

"I can take care of myself."

"You think I haven't figured that out by now? Look, you can't accomplish anything by making dad mad. We both know that. Besides, he's got a point about the house."

"You think it's full of crap?" Dean asked, his voice small, quiet.

"No," Sam replied quickly, mentally kicking himself for not being more specific, "we just can't leave it like this. Not after you went through all the trouble to fix it up for the holidays."

That seemed to cheer him up a bit, but the boy was still upset. "He could help. He didn't even open his gifts."

Sam didn't know what to say to that. He hadn't paid much attention to the tree since waking up to find his father and brother in a heated argument over his own future with the family. They'd stopped fighting as soon as he'd made his presence known, but they'd both been yelling loud enough that he had clearly heard what the problem was.

Dean wanted him to stay. He had been trying to convince their father that Sam could be a useful asset, that he knew things, was a better fighter, was stronger and smarter and faster. John had fought him on the issue, referencing the damage that could be done to the timeline as the best reason it couldn't work.

The only thing that had stopped the fight had been Sam's appearance in the kitchen. That had been followed by a strained silence that led to an uncomfortable breakfast, and eventually they'd found themselves arguing about who would be going to track down the gypsies. And that was the morning in review.

Both boys flinched as they heard the front door slam. Dean hung his head as the truck roared to life in the driveway and the sound of too-fast-to-be-safe-in-the-snow driving reached their ears. And just like that, their father was gone again, speeding off to have another life-threatening adventure without them.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"I asked dad if you could stay this morning."

Sam cracked his eyes open and glanced at the clock. It was late. They'd spent most of the day cleaning up the decorations, Sammy lost in thought, Dean still fuming. They'd gone to bed with barely a word spoken between them, and now that they'd been laying silently for half and hour, Dean wanted to strike up a conversation.

"What?" Sam asked, still trying to bring himself out of the half-sleep that had been flirting with him since his head had hit the pillow.

"This morning," Dean explained slowly, "before you woke up. I was talking to dad. I thought it would be cool if you could stay. You're more useful to us now than you were when you were twelve, so…"

"You want me to stay?"

"If you want to."

"Dean," Sam began slowly, knowing from experience that it was best to choose his words carefully, "I can't stay here. It would mess up the timeline."

"That's what dad said. But how can you know for sure?"

"Well, if I grew up-"

"That doesn't mean that you're gonna turn 25 in 2008. Maybe that's when the timeline changes."

"So, what, you're saying that twelve years from now you're gonna wake up to find an old man in the motel room?" Sam asked, intrigued by his brother's reasoning.

"Maybe," Dean said, "but you wouldn't be _that_ old. Mid-forties. And I'd be used to it. Nothing would be different because the timeline was interrupted."

"But-"

"All I'm saying is that we can't know for sure that you're supposed to go back. Maybe you're supposed to stay. You have to admit, it would be easier to save people if we knew exactly what was gonna happen to them. We could get to the ghosts before they went nuts and started killing. We could burn the monsters out of their lairs before they started attacking people. We could do a lot of good with what you know."

"But we're still not sure I'm even supposed to be here," Sam reminded him. "If dad finds the gypsies and gets them to undo this-"

"What of it wasn't gypsies?" Dean asked. "What if it was divine intervention or something?"

"Then I guess the gypsies won't be able to help us," Sam replied slowly as his mind processed what his brother had said. _Divine intervention?_ Since when had Dean believed in a Higher Power?

"Then you'll have to stay," Dean reasoned, "because there's no fighting God."

"Makes sense," Sam shrugged, "but say it _was _gypsies. What then?"

"You go back," Dean said softly, as if he hated to admit that the unnatural holiday occurrence that had taken place could possibly come to an end so soon after Christmas.

Sam nodded. "I go back." Suddenly, that didn't seem as attractive an option as it once had. It felt almost as if he was abandoning his brother, as if he was just going to walk away from someone who obviously needed his help.

"What if you didn't have to?" Dean asked, his voice so quiet that Sam had to strain to hear him.

"What?"

"What if you didn't have to leave right away? If you could stay as long as you wanted, and the timeline wouldn't take a hit. I mean, if you got dropped here, isn't possible that you could stay a while, and then get put back right where you were?"

"Like I was never even gone? I guess. Why?"

"No reason. Just wondering. You wouldn't have to stay long, not if you didn't want to. Just until the end of the month. Until the end of January. Like, maybe just the twenty-fourth?"

Sam sighed. What was he supposed to say? He couldn't stay, he knew that much for sure. Their father would never allow it, even if he bothered to listen to Dean's logic. But saying no to the question wasn't an option. It would be considered a form of rejection, something that he wasn't entirely sure his brother could take.

"Yeah," he answered, "if I could, I would."

He could hear the smile in his brother's voice as the boy turned to face the window. "That's what I thought."


	13. Chapter 13

Congrats to everyone who figured out that Dean wants Sam to stay for his birthday! I had a friend who didn't know when I summarized the story for her, and I had to explain. 'Course, she doesn't watch as much as I do/ isn't as obssessed as I am. But for those who are just as crazy as I am, here's another chapter!

* * *

"Mm hmm. Yep. Ok, I'll tell him. Yeah, I'll remember. Uh huh. Merry Christmas to you, too. Yeah, I said I'd tell him. You know, I'm starting to think that you don't trust me. Ha ha, very funny. No. Yeah. All right, bye."

Sam walked into the kitchen just in time to see his brother hang up the phone. "Who was that?"

Dean spun around quickly, shocked to see the older man up so early in the morning. "Um," he said slowly, as if pondering his answer, "dad. Who else would call at six?"

"What's he want?" Sam asked, knowing that his brother had a valid point.

"To say Merry Christmas. He told me to tell you."

"He just called to send us good tidings? Since when has dad ever done that?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe he felt bad about missing Christmas?"

"Again, since when has dad ever done that?"

"Well, it wasn't the only reason he called. He, uh, wanted to tell us that he," Dean paused, a blank look crossing his face. Sam was starting to think that his father had been smart to not trust the boy to remember any important details relayed over the phone. "He, uh, found the gypsy band. They're hanging out up in, um, rural Minnesota. He wants us to, uh, go up and wait for him there. He said we could stay in Pastor Jim's old cabin until he comes for us."

"Minnesota?" Sam asked, "why can't the gypsies just fix it while we stay here?"

"They don't have a good enough long-distance plan?" Dean guessed. "Dude, I don't know. Dad doesn't always share all of the details with me, ok?"

"Do you at least know when he wants us there?"

"That much, yeah. ASAP. I say we leave right after breakfast. Fill up on everything but coffee. It's gonna be a long ride."

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"I can't believe you talked me into this," Dean whined as he maneuvered the Impala into the dusty parking lot in front of the old wooden building. At least he'd finally finished griping about the lack of snow in the area. "Dad's expecting us-"

"To be there when he gets there, which could take a while. Besides," the now-older man said as he slid out of the car and stretched his legs, "we need a break. I can't feel my legs."

"That just means you need to toughen up," Dean quipped, falling out of the car as he stiff legs protested the sudden motion.

"Oh, yeah," Sam sighed, rolling his eyes, "_I'm_ the weak one."

"What are we even doing here?" the teenager asked, dusting himself off as he stood up and gazed at the aging bar.

"We're gonna drop in on some friends, maybe see if they know anything useful about gypsies and curses, have a beer or two, then hit the road.

"Whatever," Dean muttered, clomping up toward the door, "just so long as we don't stay the night."

Sam wasn't sure what he'd expected to find upon entering Harvelle's Roadhouse, but it certainly hadn't involved a ten-year-old girl with long, blonde pigtails. The girl took one look at the two strangers and bolted into the back room, yelling for her mother, who promptly burst through the door with a loaded handgun.

The brothers both instinctively raised their hands, bodies stiffening at the sight of the weapon. "Ellen?" Sam asked, never taking his eyes from the gun.

"Who wants to know?" the woman asked as Jo peeked out from behind her legs.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

He heard the safety clock off. "Start talking."

"I'm Sam, and this is my brother Dean."

"Sam and Dean?" she asked, "Winchester?"

Dean nodded. "Yes, ma'am." Sam couldn't help but crack a smile. The words were nice enough, but the tone was threatening. Obviously, Dean didn't know who he was dealing with.

"That's impossible," Ellen said, letting Dean's reply go unnoticed and un-reprimanded. Her eyes fell on Sam and narrowed. "You're too old."

"That's what you think," Dean muttered.

"Excuse me?" The boy stiffened visibly as the gun turned solely to him.

"What do you know about gypsy curses?" Sam asked quickly, stepping between his brother and Ellen with one fluid motion.

"Enough. Why?"

"We think that's what did this to me. I went to sleep in 2007 and woke up in '95. Dad took out a werewolf tied to a gypsy tribe a few days before that. We think there's a connection."

"Your dad sent you?" Ellen asked, narrowing her eyes and lower the gun a bit as Jo continued to cower in the background.

"You know our dad?" Dean asked, shoving his way out from behind his brother before Sam even had a chance to answer.

"Take that as a 'no,'" Ellen muttered, clicking the safety back on and tucking the gun into the waistband of her jeans. She turned and smiled at Jo, who slunk out from the shadows, still clutching her mother's legs in a death-grip. "So, gypsies, huh?"

Sam shrugged, letting himself relax in the familiar, safe atmosphere that the bar provided. "Gypsies."

"You're lucky, you know that? Time warp's like a slap on the wrist when you think about the other possibilities."

"Yeah, Dean filled me in on that."

"So, you boys just stopping by to ask some questions, or is there something else you want?" As if on cue, Dean's stomach let out a rumbling growl. The bar owner laughed. "Right. Gotcha." She headed back into the room she'd come from, leaving the boys alone with Jo.

The little blonde ambled up to Dean, staring up at the teenager with wide eyes. "Wanna have a tea party?"

Dean looked up at his brother with an expression that mirrored Jo's, begging for help. Sam smiled. "Only if he gets to dress up," the older hunter offered, "he really likes to do that."

"Ok," the girl said, grabbing Dean's hand and pulling him toward the back of the bar, where a small plastic table and two chairs had been set up. The teen was able to throw one threatening glance over his shoulder at his brother before being pushed into a chair.

Sam slid onto a barstool and watched as Jo wrapped a large, pink feather boa around his brother's neck before placing a sparkly _Little Mermaid _tiara on his head. What he wouldn't have given for a camera at that moment, just for the blackmail capabilities.

The door to the back room opened and Ellen walked out, carrying two steaming bowls. "Chili's fresh," she explained, setting the bowls down in front of Sam and placing two spoons beside them. She glanced over at the table in the corner and smiled. "And I can reheat it for your brother if he needs me to."

"Thanks. So, um, gypsies…"

She nodded, moving around the counter to sit beside him. "Gypsies," she said slowly, "are not a group of people you want to mess with. They mess right back at you, and with some serious magic."

"Yeah," Sam said, gesturing at himself, "got that."

"Right. Well, I don't know what to tell you, Sam. These curses are all different for different reasons. You can't just get any gypsy to lift it. It's gotta be the one who cast it. He's the only one who knows the true motive."

"But if we could find him…"

"And convince him that you've learned your lesson, then, yeah, he might help you out. Or she."

"A lesson?"

"These people are smart and they believe in justice. You ever read Thinner? Guy's wife was giving him a hand job as he was driving, he hit a gypsy woman, and he got cursed because the judge let him off easy. Judge got cursed, too, and so did one of the cops. It's all about justice in its basest form."

"Then why go after me? Why pull me back in time if _dad_ did something wrong?"

Ellen shrugged, looking up at him, and he realized for the first time how much younger she looked. For a moment, he was glad that he'd been the one sent back, because he was sure Dean would have been all over the pretty redhead that sat beside him.

"Maybe," she said slowly, pulling Sam from his thoughts, "this was his punishment. Having his little boy grow up so fast." She looked back at the plastic table in the corner, smiling sadly. "Because kids do. You blink and you miss it. Can't believe she's ten already. And I'm always here. Your daddy leaves you boys alone for long stretches of time, doesn't even bother to call. It's a wonder he even recognizes you when he gets back. He misses so much."

Sam followed her gaze over to the table. Dean had slipped the tiara off of his own head and placed it on Jo's. He was smiling warmly, engaged in conversation with the tiny blonde, as she helped guide his hand over a piece of paper, keeping the crayon he was holding safely within the lines, obviously very pleased with herself for being able to help a big kid.

Maybe Sam wasn't the only one who had grown up too fast. After all, he couldn't recall any memories from his past that involved Dean acting like a child. There were plenty from his present, sure, but none from a time when Dean had actually _been_ a kid. Again, he was astonished that he had ever missed that fact before.

"You're right," he replied softly, turning to look into his bowl of chili, "can't believe I didn't see it before."

Ellen nodded. "Like I said, some things are easy to miss."

Sighing, Sam picked up his spoon and started to eat.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"We're never gonna talk about this again, got it?" Dean mumbled as he stalked out to the car, his scuffed boots kicking up dust, shoulders slumped against the cool winter wind that was blowing through the leafless trees that surrounded the property.

"What, you didn't have fun playing tea party with Jo?"

"She's so annoying. Even worse than you at that age." Sam was pretty sure his brother's sudden shudder didn't have anything to do with the breeze.

"Huh. Guess some things never change."

Dean grumbled something incoherent and pulled open the car door. He glanced nervously up at the sun, which was starting its descent. "You set us back a couple of hours here, Sammy."

"Time well wasted," the older man defended, sliding into the old car, "besides, we found out a little bit."

"I guess." Dean backed the car up, turned it around, and headed out of the parking lot. "So, how come dad never mentioned this place before? He scared the demon-child might emasculate us or something?"

"No. It's nothing. I think he just wanted to keep us out of the life as long as possible."

Dean shot him a skeptical glance. "Have you _met_ our father?"

Sam shook his head. "Just drive, ok? It's not important."

"Fine," Dean shrugged, "but, you know, I kinda liked that Ellen chick. She was nice." He smirked. "Pretty easy on the eyes, too."

"_Drive_."


	14. Chapter 14

Ok, well, here we are with only six chapters left. Please enjoy :)

* * *

The headlights shone brightly through the falling snow, hitting the large wooden cabin that sat directly in front of them. "We're here," Dean announced. 

Sam leaned down and squinted through the snow-covered windshield to see where 'here' was. The cabin looked old and rustic, but familiar somehow. He could vaguely remember hastily given first-aid lessons while their father lay bleeding on the big blue couch inside, swimming lessons that had nearly been the death of both boys, and warm meals, comfortable beds, fluffy pillows, and family time.

"We used to come here a lot, didn't we?" he asked, turning to Dean, who also sat staring up at the imposing building.

"Yeah. Jim let us use it whenever dad got hurt. It's safe. Protected from all sorts of stuff. Big-time mojo, too, no wimpy salt or symbols. Nothing bad can get in."

"Sounds good," Sam noted, opening the door as Dean killed the engine. A swirl of snow blew into the car as two pairs of boots crunched down into the fresh powder. Sam fished the bags out of the trunk as Dean walked up the front path to the door.

"Watch it," the boy called over his shoulder, "it's slick."

Sam waved a hand to show that he had heard and followed his brother through the large flakes. The moon sat high in the sky illuminating the remote forested area around them as Dean dug under the doormat for the key. The lock tumbled back and the door opened with a squeal of protest.

Compared to the surrounding woods, the interior of the house was pitch black. Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Sam followed his brother into the cabin, dropping the bags as soon as he was inside. Dean groped for a light switch and flipped it on, bathing the room in a dim glow.

If the cabin had seemed rustic on the outside, it was anything but within. A modern kitchen gleamed at them through a doorway, a radio and television sat in the main room, a fan whirred to life overhead.

Dean reached back and shut the door, turning to look up at Sam with wide eyes and an equally large smile, appearing more like a kid in a candy shop than a tired teen who'd just arrived at his latest temporary residence. "Welcome home, Sammy."

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Hurried footsteps down the stairs from the cabin's small loft space were the first indication that Dean had decided to roll out of bed. The second was his stunning entrance into the kitchen, sliding across the hardwood floor in his socks, barely able to stop himself before he flipped over a counter.

"Morning, sunshine," Sam grinned, barely turning from the stove to acknowledge his brother.

"What are you doing?" Dean demanded.

"Making breakfast."

"Why?"

Sam shrugged. "I was hungry."

"So?"

"So, I made breakfast. You want some? Made enough for both of us."

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Because you were asleep," Sam said slowly, fully turning now to look at the younger man. "Why?"

"Well, if you were hungry, you should have woken me up."

"But-"

"I would have made something for you."

"You were asleep," Sam repeated, flinching as a spatter of grease leapt from the bacon he'd been frying and landed on his hand, burning him.

"You shouldn't have to do this."

"Maybe I wanted to."

Dean looked taken aback. "You _wanted_ to? You serious?"

"Yeah," the older man nodded, "after all, I've been here a week now, figured the least I could do was make breakfast."

"You made me breakfast?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

The teenager shrugged. "I was asleep."

"That's why I did it."

Dean blinked, as if he didn't believe what he was seeing and hearing. And as far as Sam could see, he didn't. The boy looked at him for what seemed like an hour before finally shrugging again and taking a seat at the worn wooden table that sat in a corner of the room.

"Thanks," Dean muttered, looking down at his hands as Sam started searching for plates to put their breakfast on.

o0o0o0o0o0o

Silence spoke volumes, especially when the silence was Dean Winchester's doing. Sam had learned over the years what each brand of silence meant. If the air around them seemed strained, if the tension could be cut with a machete, it meant Dean was mad. If it was awkward, he was upset. This, however, was different. This was scary.

From his spot on the couch, staring at some old movie playing on the television, Sam could hear his brother, could hear his feet scuttling around in the loft space he'd claimed as his room, could hear the creaking of the old bed as he sat down and stood up, could hear the thoughts whirring around in the younger man's head.

He was starting to get worried. Dean had been quiet all through breakfast and had left the table as soon as he'd finished, leaving Sam with clean-up duty. He'd been up in his room all morning, pacing and sitting, barely making a sound.

This silence was different to Sam, almost new. It meant that his brother was thinking, and thinking hard. He was plotting, scheming, but what about?

In truth, Sam had never seen him act like that. The desperation, that needy quality in his voice, followed up by the unnerving silence, was almost too much to take. If it hadn't been for John showing up, Sam might not believe that he had spent Christmas with his brother. In fact, for all he knew, the people he had spent the holidays with were just figments of his imagination. Maybe he was still sound asleep in that far-away motel room. But he didn't think so.

Footsteps padded softly down the stairs and across the hall. He felt a presence behind him and turned to see Dean looking over his shoulder at the TV. "Whatcha watching?"


	15. Chapter 15

All right guys. This is one of my fave chapters. Get ready for the thick to plotten (someone on a Mummy cartoon message board said that in a review for one of my old stories a couple of years back and now it's a habit of mine to post it often!). Please enjoy.

* * *

He was surprised to awaken to silence instead of the sound of clinking silverware and metal pans. He'd grown almost accustomed to the thought of Dean preparing breakfast, even when he woke later than usual, with the exception of the day before, and was immediately worried about what this continuation of the previous day's silence could mean.

Sam walked slowly into the kitchen to find Dean sitting down at the table, his eyes turned down, an old phone placed in front of him. "Dean?" he asked, knowing immediately that something was wrong, "what is it?"

The boy looked up at him with shining eyes, eyes so full of despair and hopelessness that they were nearly overflowing. "He's dead," Dean whispered.

Sam felt the strength leave his legs, but somehow managed to stay upright. "Who?"

"Dad. Jim called this morning… before you woke up. He said that… he said dad was on his doorstep. Sammy, they killed him!"

The tears were flowing freely now, and Sam wanted to join his brother in mourning, but something told him not to. He had to be strong. He was the older one now, after all, and he figured that there was probably something to Dean's lifelong belief that showing emotion also meant showing weakness. It was his turn to be the grown-up.

"Come here," he offered, holding his arms out awkwardly.

Even through his tears, Dean was able to look amazed. "What?"

"Come here. It's gonna be all right."

"You're kidding, right?" the teen asked as he slid off his seat.

Sam forced a smile. "No. I'm not. It's ok."

Slowly, Dean slunk toward him, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, sniffling a bit. The boy's cautious steps took longer than the older man would have thought to reach him. As soon as his brother was within reach, Sam swept him up into the embrace, willing his hands not to shake with the shock of the news he'd just discovered, trying to stay strong for the boy.

"Don't worry," Dean whispered into his brother's shirt as the older man began to awkwardly stroke his hair, "I'm gonna find a way to send you back. No matter what."

Sam forced his eyes away from the top of his brother's head and closed them, effectively stopping any stray tears from leaking out. "No way," he replied with a voice steadier than he would have imagined himself capable of. It was certainly steadier than it had been the last time he'd heard the news of his father's death.

Dean looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, eyes that Sam couldn't see as he blocked his own sorrow from seeping through the defenses he'd developed since Jessica's death, defenses he hardly ever used. "What?"

"You heard me. I'm not leaving. Not now. Not after this."

"But-"

"No buts, Dean," Sam said, "I'm not gonna leave you all alone. I'm gonna stay here with you. That's that."

With his face still turned away, Sam was unable to see the knowledge shining in the younger man's haunted hazel eyes, the way he smiled through the tears. Letting forth a stray sob, Dean buried his head in his brother's shirt, wrapping his arms tightly around the older man, breathing him in, never again to be alone. If Sam had been able to see, if he trusted himself to look, he would have realized the truth. But he couldn't, so he didn't.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Sam had been glad when Dean had announced that he wanted some alone time. The teenager had wandered into the room that their father had most often slept in during their brief visits to pastor Jim Murphy's cabin and locked the door. Sam had finally sunk into one of the kitchen chairs, his wobbly legs no longer able to support him as the truth sank in deeper and deeper.

_It was all his fault_.

He had woken up in the past, had fought with his father, had driven the older man away, had sent John to his death. If he hadn't been so adamant about sticking up for Dean, if he'd just tried to get along with his dad for once, if he'd forced his father to take him along on the hunt…

There were so many things that he could have done, things that he should have done. He'd screwed the timeline to Hell. He'd killed his father by making him go off on a hunt that was never supposed to happen. And now he and Dean were all they had left. Again.

He sighed, realizing that, for all he'd done wrong, at least he'd managed to make some good come from his failings. Dean was going to get a home, a guardian, a family. Sure, John was gone, Sam was now stuck in the past, bound by a promise he never should have had to make, but at least Dean would have a fighting chance. Maybe he could even go back to school. Maybe he could make some friends. Maybe-

The phone rang, startling Sam enough to make him jump out of his seat and bang his knees painfully on the thick wooden table. He reached forward and grabbed at it absently, not really in the mood to talk to someone, not when he was so close to a breakdown that, for Dean's sake, couldn't come.

"Hello?"

"Who is this?" the voice on the other end asked, and Sam nearly lost it. It was a voice he'd thought he'd never hear again, not since Meg's merciless slaughter of anyone and everyone connected to the Winchesters.

"Jim?"

"Who is this?" the pastor asked again, danger creeping into his voice now.

"Sam. Sam Winchester. I know it sounds crazy, but-"

"Sammy," Jim sighed, "you have no idea how relieved I am to hear your voice."

"Come again?"

"Yes. I've been trying all morning to contact you boys. I'm sure Bobby and Caleb and Josh have, too. Your father's persuasive like that."

Sam nearly dropped the phone. "What? But I thought dad-"

"He stopped by earlier this morning."

"You found him, you mean," Sam jabbered, "you found his body. The gypsies-"

"Yes, he had a gypsy with him, but what's all this about a body? Are you all right?"

"You called this morning," Sam explained, "you called here and Dean answered and you told him dad was dead. You said you'd found his body. You said the gypsies killed him."

"I haven't spoken to Dean in over a month," Jim said slowly, "the last person I know of to talk to him was Bobby, a couple of days ago, by phone. He called to wish you boys a merry Christmas."

"Dean said that was dad."

"Well, he was wrong. Your father went back to your home in Clarkson after finding the gypsies he'd been looking for and found it empty. The car wasn't in the garage, and there was no sign of you boys. He got worried and he phoned in a couple of favors. People have been looking for you boys nonstop since late last night. Ellen Harvelle said you stopped by her place, so I thought I'd call here."

"Dean said dad wanted us here. He said dad told him the gypsies had moved up to Minnesota."

"John found them in Wisconsin," Jim said, "I think your brother lied to you, Sam."

"He did more than that," Sam gritted through tightly clenched teeth, "he told me my father was dead." He hung up without saying good-bye.


	16. Chapter 16

Well, I'm pissed. I was looking forward to watching Sn even though the writers are striking and now I find out that I can't. If I tune in to the CW on tHursdays, I'll see Smallville and Reaper now. And right before finals week, too!

Oh, well. At least there are still fics, art, and vids to keep of occupied. Speaking of fics...

* * *

"Oh, Dean."

The teen looked up from an old TV Guide and flashed a sad smile. Sam forced one back at him, trying his hardest to keep the anger rising steadily inside of him from bubbling to the surface and lashing out at the boy.

"I've been thinking," Dean said, "and maybe we can stay here. We wouldn't even have to ask Jim, I'm sure he'd be all right with it. And I could go back to school or you could teach me or whatever. And we could strop hunting. We could live out here together. And then, next month-"

"You lied to me," Sam interrupted, "you lied."

"What?" Dean asked, cocking his head to one side. He looked confused, looked hurt at being accused, but there was fear in his eyes that Sam could see clearly, even through the fog of his rage.

"You told me dad was dead."

"He is," Dean said softly, his voice braking for that added effect, that weakness that Sam wouldn't have been able to resist under other circumstances.

"I just got off the phone with Jim." The fear spread to Dean's entire face, seeping into his body, stiffening his form, causing him to shake. "Guess what he said?"

"That he's sorry?"

"No, Dean. He told me that he didn't call you this morning. He told me that dad was there earlier with one of the gypsies. Dad's worried, Dean. He's been looking all over for us."

Dean shook his head, sending stray blond locks flapping over his eyes. "No," he whispered.

"I want to know why," Sam said softly, "I want to know why you lied." He sat down on the couch by his brother, glaring at the younger man.

"You wouldn't understand," Dean attempted.

"Try me."

"Look, we can pack up and leave before dad finds us, we can-"

"No!" The word left his mouth louder and more hostile than he'd intended, cutting off his brother's plea.

"I thought you wanted to stay," Dean said quietly, his voice holding that same tone of desperation that seemed to always be present now, that tone of longing and sadness and false hope, "dad won't let you. He can't find us. If he finds us, he'll send you back."

It was simple logic, logic that tugged at his heartstrings, gnawing slowly at his anger, threatening to melt it away, to make him give in. Sam couldn't let that happen. "No."

"I don't want you to go."

"I don't want to stay with a liar, Dean."

"You wanna know why I did it?"

"Yeah. I want to know."

The boy shrugged. "I don't want you to leave. I thought you would stay if I told you dad wasn't coming back."

"You told me he was _dead_."

"And you told me you'd stay."

Sam moaned, clenching his fists and resisting the urge to wipe that hurt expression from his lying brother's face, to beat that tone from his voice. "I lied."

Dean's eyes went wide. "You-"

"I can't stay with you. Not after what you did."

"I only did what you told me to."

"I told you to lie to me? I told you to tell me my father was dead? I told you to make me relive that, to make me think it was all my fault? I told you that?"

Dean blinked, processing what his brother had said. "You told me dad was fine."

"And you told me he was dead, only this time it was because of me and not you."

He saw his brother's Adam's apple bob as the teenager swallowed hard, sniffling and blinking back the tears that were threatening to form in his haunted eyes. "I… I'm gonna kill dad?"

"Basically, yeah," Sam sneered, no longer caring about messing up the timeline, about trying to deal with his brother's pain and sorrow, about anything that had to do with Dean unless it involved hurting him, causing the same kind of pain that Dean had inflicted upon him earlier that morning. If it meant throwing a low blow, then so be it. He was mad, and when he got mad, he tended to hit below the belt.

Dean shook his head, as if in disbelief. "I only did what you told me to," he whispered, his voice broken now, dripping with regret and pain and loss. Sam felt his anger slipping away, but only the tiniest bit, not enough to hurt him or hold his tongue, not yet.

"And what was that?"

Dean looked up at him with those scared eyes, eyes that made him look four. "I did what it took. I did what it took to get what I wanted. Even though it meant stepping on some toes. You told me that's what it would take."

"I didn't mean this. I didn't mean you had to kidnap me and then lie about it. How damaged do you have to be to take that so out of line, Dean? How messed up do you have to be to kidnap your own family and then hit me with something like that? What's wrong with you?"

"You said there wasn't anything wrong with me."

Sam looked at his brother, and suddenly years of resentment, of jealousy, of anger, of frustration rushed back at him, filling him with rage and hate. Memories of being left alone in his brother's young, incapable hands, of Dean teaching him to shoot a gun, of Dean making up stories based off of pictures to hide his own ineptitude, of Dean begging him to stay, breaking up every fight, always getting in the middle, always getting in the way- they all rushed through him, filling him up until he couldn't take it anymore. He lashed out.

"There _is_ something wrong with you. There always has been and there always will be. You're broken and you can't be fixed."

"Does this mean you won't stay until the twenty-fourth?"

"Of course not! I'm not staying with you. I'm leaving the first chance I get. What is it about me that makes you act like a raving lunatic, Dean? What's wrong with you?"

Dean backed away, scooting himself off the couch, his wide eyes appraising Sam. "I thought you were different," he said softly, voice more hurt than anything else, "I thought you _liked_ me."

"Well, I guess you thought wrong."

"Guess I did," Dean whispered, "because I thought you were gonna change." His eyes flashed dangerously and his voice rose. "I thought that you'd grown up. I thought you were finally gonna take responsibility for yourself. I thought maybe one day you'd realize what a total ass you were and would change, but you're never gonna change, are you? You're just a selfish now as you were the day you were born."

"You're calling me a selfish baby now? Really mature, Dean."

"You took them from me," the teenager shouted, "you took _mom_. If it wasn't for you, she never would have died, and dad never would have started hunting. If it wasn't for you, I'd be _happy_. I wouldn't have to lie to get what I want."

"You really mean that?" It was Sam's turn to sound hurt.

"I thought you were different," Dean repeated, voice rising even higher, echoing off the wooden walls and resonating around the room. It took a few seconds, but Sam realized that he'd avoided answering the question. "I thought you liked me now."

"I do-"

"But you're just like _them_. You're exactly like everyone else. You only use me to get what you want, and when you don't need me anymore, you throw me away. I thought maybe you were gonna change, like someday you'd feel bad about it, but you didn't, did you? You just kept taking. Damn it, Sam, when is it gonna be my turn?"

"Your-?"

"It's what I wanted. I wanted someone to take care of me because no one ever has. All my life, I kept thinking that someday you'd repay me for everything I've ever done for you. I thought you would do that one thing for me and then we would be even. I thought it was _my turn_, Sam. I thought you were _different_."

Sammy stared at his brother, his mouth agape as he took in every angry word, every harsh syllable. All anger had fled his body, all rage had faded as soon as Dean had started yelling.

"I thought you wanted to stay with me," Dean finished, his voice fading as he lost steam, "I thought since you spent Christmas with me, then maybe you'd see you'd made a mistake by leaving. I thought you were different. I thought you'd changed. But you won't even stay until the twenty-fourth."

"What is that?" Sam asked, "what's on the twenty-fourth?"

"If you have to ask," Dean said sadly, "then I really _was_ wrong." He turned and sulked out the front door. Sam didn't go after him.


	17. Chapter 17

Wow. I can't believe we're actually heading into the final stretch here! Thanks again to all of the awesome people that have reviewed. I would hand out tissues to everyone, but I'm afraid I'd run out (I've got allergies, ya know!). Please accept this chapter as a sign of my undying graditude instead :)

* * *

Sam wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting on the couch, just waiting for his brother to return. He'd lost all track of time as a myriad of thoughts had seized his mind, rending him incapable of anything but the vaguest form of awareness, a simple statement that raced faster and faster through his mind until every word had blurred together in a single, inescapable mass of guilt and regret: _he got what he wanted_.

He'd stayed where he'd been after Dean had left, had taken to staring around the cabin. It was safe, it was protected. They'd gone there when they were younger, had learned to swim there, to patch up wounds, to be a family. Dean had taken him there instead of some seedy motel, had given him a home, had stopped the running.

Growing up, one place was all Sam had every really wanted. Just one house, one bed, something that he could call home, something to make his own, something that wouldn't change. Sitting there in a stupor, he realized that Dean had given him that.

The damn kid didn't even think of himself when he was only thinking of himself. Dean had always seemed fine with the motels, the crappy apartments, the temporary homes. He liked new thing, liked the change of scenery. He hated to have to settle down. He was a free spirit. _Sam_ had craved a single home, one set of friends, the same scenery flying past every day as they drove into town.

That was what Dean had been thinking of when picking out the perfect place to settle. Sure, he'd been certain to meet his own requirements, the ones that called for protection and a fully-stocked fridge, but he'd also had little brother in mind.

It made Sam hate himself. Maybe the kid had had a point. Maybe Sam was selfish and would never change. But he wasn't completely irresponsible. He'd made breakfast. Once.

He closed his eyes as the realization of what that meant hit him full-force. He'd taken over, had taken the responsibility for the morning's meal, had let his brother _sleep in_. It hadn't seemed like much to Sam, but apparently Dean had a different way of thinking. Sam had made breakfast, had taken the torch that Dean had been holding out for him since who knew how long, had taken over as the adult.

And he hated himself.

It was the sound of his own stomach growling that finally roused Sam from his thoughts. He glanced over at the dusty clock that hung over the old television, surprised to see that it was nearly noon. The question was, noon on which day?

He'd vaguely been aware of a darkening of the sky, but he'd been too engrossed in his thoughts and revelations to take much notice of it. Standing up on stiff legs, he worked his way shakily to the television and turned it on. He flipped channels until he found a news station. He watched for a while, eyes roving over the screen, searching for a date. Sure enough, it was only a matter of time before the weather report popped up and Sam's eyes widened.

He'd been up all night. It was the thirtieth. It was the thirtieth, and he'd fought with his brother on the twenty-ninth. Dean had walked out of the cabin and hadn't walked back in. At least, Sam was pretty sure he hadn't walked back in. Things were a little hazy.

He was a bit surprised to find that he'd let himself sink so far into his own mind that he'd become oblivious to everything around him. He turned off the TV and straightened up, bending backwards until his spine cracked pleasantly, and headed off to search the house for his brother.

Fifteen minutes of playing hide-and-seek with no one and calling Dean's name proved to him that the teenager was still gone. He checked the yard in front of the cabin, scared that maybe Dean had taken the car, had left him stranded. The Impala was still there, still standing guard.

His stomach growled again, but Sam didn't have much of an appetite. He'd chased his brother off, had practically betrayed the kid. He was positive that his stomach was permanently knotted now, bound with a feeling of failure and despair. He'd let his brother down.

He puttered around the small kitchen, searching through the cupboards to find out if anything looked or sounded good. Finally, he found some cookies, the ones with the little elves on the package, and settled in to eat every meal he'd missed the day before.

Sam couldn't help but wonder, while he munched on cookies that seemed to dry up and lose all taste in his mouth, where Dean had gone. Where _could _he go? Jim had made it sound like every hunter in the nation was in on the search for the brothers. Any of them would call John if Dean showed up.

That took Jim, Bobby, Josh, Caleb, and even Ellen out of the equation. Where else did the kid have to go? Crappy motels and seedy back roads? He didn't even have a car, at least not the one he liked. No car, no home…

And that was when it hit him. _The car_. It had been like a home to the Winchesters for as long as Sam could remember. If Dean was anywhere, he was in the car.

Excited by his sudden revelation, Sam raced out into the yard, nearly slipping on some hidden ice, and peered inside the car.

The fact that the windows were clear should have been the first indication that his brother wasn't inside. Lack of a warm body meant lack of fog, but Sam was working on no sleep and desperation, so he opened the door and called out for Dean. Naturally, there was no response.

Sam shut the door and straightened up, looking around the wooded area near the cabin, shivering slightly in the frigid breeze. Dean had left without his coat. Sam wasn't even sure the kid had had shoes on. It was the middle of winter in the Midwest, the ground was covered in snow, and Dean was walking around without shoes or a coat. And Sam hated himself.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

He couldn't remember going back into the house, couldn't remember lying down on the bed that he'd claimed as his own after Dean had called the loft space, couldn't remember covering himself up, couldn't remember filling the cabin with the smell of cooking food, but apparently Sam had done all of those things.

He sat up straight in bed, groaning as every muscle in his body protested the movement. "Dean?" he called out, desperate to hear his brother's voice, wondering suddenly if the whole thing hadn't just been a horrible dream, "is that you?"

A body appeared in the doorway, a body tall enough to be his brother's someday, once the boy had filled out, bulked up, and finished growing. Now, though, it was _too_ tall, _too_ muscular, _too_ adult to be Dean.

"Sorry to disappoint," John said, "but I don't know where he is."

"How'd I get back here?" Sam asked, looking around the room, "the last thing I remember-"

"I found you passed out by the car," his father informed him. "What were you doing out there, anyway?"

Sam sighed. "Looking for Dean. He ran away, and I thought he might be in the car."

"Well, he's not," John said, sitting down on at the foot of the bed and looking at Sam with tired eyes, "and that's what I want to know. Why isn't he in the car? Why isn't he here?"

"We had a fight," Sam stated simply, "we had a fight and he got mad and left."

"What was it about?"

The younger hunter slumped his shoulders, running a hand through his hair, hearing the question within the question. "If you wanted to know why we came here, all you had to do was ask."

John nodded. "Fair enough. Why?"

Sam opened his mouth to talk, to tell his father everything that had happened, to tell him about being kidnapped, being lied to, but found that he couldn't. It had taken him over 24 hours to finally understand what had made his brother do those things, and that was only because he'd had time to think. John didn't have the time. He didn't want to think, he wanted to _do_, and that was what made him dangerous.

"It wasn't Dean," Sam said softly, "it had nothing to do with him."

"Jim told me what you told him. He told me that Dean said I had died. He brought you up here and he lied to you, didn't he, Sam? That much, I know for sure. I just want to know why he did it."

Sammy shook his head. "You wouldn't understand. Nobody understands. I sure didn't. That's why he left. Nobody gets it."

"I think I can try to understand," John replied, the false calm in his voice becoming strained as he waited for the man that only slightly resembled his little boy to stop beating around the bush, "I _am _his father, after all."

Sam started to laugh, but thought better of it at the last minute. The resulting sound was a sort of dry snort, something that obviously didn't please the older man. "I know," Sam said, "and, even though I'm no expert on the subject of child-rearing, I think you've been doing it wrong."

John jumped to his feet. "Excuse me?"

"You have no idea what you did to him. What we both did. It's all our fault."

"Why did he do it?"

Sam shrugged. "He wanted a home. A home and a family. He wanted me, and he knew you wouldn't let him keep me, so he took me. He stole me. He lied to me. And I'm not mad at him anymore. I _was_, but then I thought about it. It's not his fault. It's mine, and it's yours, sure, but not his. _Never_ his."

John narrowed his eyes. "Where'd he go, Sam?"

Again, the younger man shrugged. "Why do you think I was looking for him in the car? Dad, he's _gone_. And he's not coming back."

"That just means we have to look for him," John said, raising his voice, channeling his anger towards his formerly youngest son's words and formerly oldest boy's new attitude into determination to find the missing child. "Where do you think he is?"

"I thought he'd come back. I thought he'd be in the car. But he won't go stay with any of our friends. He's smarter than that. You might not think he is, but you're wrong. He'll hide. He won't be found unless he wants to. And, dad, I really pissed him off."

"He's gotta be somewhere," the older man muttered, raking a hand through his short hair and stalking out of the room. Shrugging, Sam followed his father. "I mean, he can't run forever. If what you said is true, he won't want to hide out in seedy motels for the rest of his life. He's gonna try to settle. It's just a matter of where."

"And when," Sam offered.

John shook his head. "If he's as smart as you say he is, then he's gonna find a spot pretty quick. I checked the closet. His coat's still there. His shoes are by the door. He'll find somewhere to stay. Any place you can think of?"

Walking past his father into the kitchen, Sam tried to think. He took a seat at the table, chewing absently on his thumbnail. Other than the car, Bobby's place, and the cabin, he couldn't think of anywhere that Dean would go. Those were the spots that he felt most at home, most at ease. There were good memories there, a brand of warmth and kindness that couldn't be found in small town motels, there were nice people at those places...

A vague memory, newly formed, tickled at the back of his mind. Dean saying that he thought someone was nice, that she was pretty easy on the eyes…

"I know where he is."

John was in front of him in an instant. "Where?"

"Harvelle's Roadhouse," Sam announced matter-of-factly.

His father sank into a chair. "How do you know about that?" he asked, his voice low and threatening and maybe even a little bit scared.

"A series of very unfortunate events," Sam answered, "that isn't important right now. What is important is going to that bar and getting Dean back. Jim said you found the gypsy?"

John nodded. "I caught up with them, yeah. Left the one that agreed to come back with me at the house."

"It went willingly?"

"Yeah. It's a long story. I'll tell you later. Right now, you need to go get your brother. Take the car. Dean left the keys."

Sam cocked his head to one side. "You're not coming?"

"I can't go back there, Sammy. I can't tell you why."

Sam sighed, lowering his eyes. "She doesn't blame you, dad. She forgave you a long time ago."

"Doesn't matter. I can't go back." John stood up and headed for the door. "Go get your brother. I'll meet you back in Clarkson."


	18. Chapter 18

Well, I hope y'all are ready for a wild (and long) ride. This is the longest chapter in the story and the third-to-last. Enjoy!

* * *

Crickets chirped in the fields as Sam stood in the dusty parking lot outside Harvelle's Roadhouse, gazing up at the buzzing neon sign that hung above the door. He took a deep breath to steady himself, praying that he was right about his brother's location, and pushed open the old wooden door.

It had taken him a while to make it from Jim's cabin to the bar, and it was late enough that he had expected to find the place empty and the door locked. Surprisingly enough, Jo was still awake, sitting on one of the old bar stools and reading a book. She looked up as Sam entered.

"Hiya," the blonde grinned, waving at the man.

"Hey," Sam said, waving back, "listen, Jo, is my brother around?"

The girl nodded. "He's in the back room, but I'm not supposed to tell you… oops."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Why aren't you supposed to tell me that?"

Jo pressed her lips together tightly and turned back to her book. Shaking his head in exasperation, Sam headed back down the hallway where a few unused rooms sat. The door to one was open, and Sam softened his steps as he crept up to it, careful not to be heard.

He peeked into the room to find Dean laying on a single bed, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes blank. Slowly, Sam eased himself into the room, still trying not to make a sound and alert his brother to his presence. He shut the door behind himself and straightened up. "Dean," he said softly.

The teen bolted upright, fear shining brightly in his eyes as he caught sight of his brother. "How'd you get in here?" he demanded.

Sam shrugged. "Door was open. Jo told me where you were."

"Knew that little bitch couldn't keep a secret," Dean hissed, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and standing up. "Suppose you came to yell at me some more."

"Actually, I came to take you home. Dad found the gypsies and he got one to reverse the curse. He's worried about you."

"About as worried as you were, right?"

The older man cocked his head to one side, a little confused by the new bitter tone in his brother's voice. "You all right?"

"That's a stupid question," Dean sneered, "seeing as how I'm _broken _and nothing can _fix_ me."

Sam hung his head. "You're still mad."

"Like you're not."

"I thought about it," Sam explained, "and I realized you had a point. I'm not mad anymore, Dean. I just want you to come home."

"I don't have a home. No one wants me. You made that perfectly clear. So just leave me alone and go back to your own time and hang out with your precious friends. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"Does Ellen know you're here?"

"You think a hunter wouldn't know a break-and-enter when she saw one? Yeah, she knows. She said I could stay as long as I want. I plan on taking her up on that offer."

"Come back with me."

"No way," Dean said, plopping back down on the bed, "I'm not going back. Dad's gonna be pissed."

"Not if we explain-"

"I'm staying here and that's that."

"You really want to spend the rest of your life mooching off these people?" Sam asked, his voice rising as anger started rising within again. He tried to fight it, he really did, but Dean was being stubborn, and the older man wasn't in the mood to deal with it.

"It's not mooching if they want me here."

"You really think they're gonna tell you if that don't want you anymore?"

"You did."

That effectively knocked Sam's anger down a peg, deflated him until he felt like he was twelve years old again and had done something wrong. He took a deep breath. "Just come with me. Please. I can talk dad down. I'm sorry."

Some of the hardness, the stubbornness, left his brother's eyes. "You mean that?" Dean asked. His voice was cautious, but once again held that hopeful, pleading quality. Sam took that as a good sign.

"Yeah. I'll talk to him. And I really am sorry."

"Does that mean you'll stay?" And now his eyes were shining again, shining with hope, and Sam hated to wipe them clean again, to put that dullness back, to hit the kid when he was down, but he didn't have much of a choice.

"You know I can't."

"Then I'm not going back."

It was then that Sam realized that he was trapped. If he said he was going back, Dean would stay put and refuse to go with him. If he said he would stay, he risked starting another fight and making his brother hate him. As far as he was concerned, there was only one thing that he could do.

Sam stepped forward with one long stride and bent over at the waist. He wrapped his arms around his brother and threw the kid over his shoulder. He grunted as he straightened up and Dean's weight settled against his shoulder and back, but he didn't let go. The teen started throwing punches and kicks, even tried yelling, but Sam wouldn't put him down. He'd offered to do things the easy way, but Dean hadn't taken it. Too bad.

Still carrying his brother like a sack of potatoes, Sam headed out of the room and past Jo, who had been joined by her mother in the bar. Ellen's shouts of protest joined Dean's, but they were both ignored as Sam headed out the door and to the car.

He pulled open the driver's side door and shoved Dean in hastily before climbing in after him and locking everything. The teen glared at him, but said nothing, choosing instead to simply cross his arms over his chest.

Sighing, Sam turned the key in the ignition and rolled out of the parking lot and toward Clarkson. "It's all for the best," he assured his brother. He was pretty sure his words fell on deaf, stubborn ears.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o

It was early in the day on New Year's Eve and it definitely felt like a new beginning to Sam. This year, he would keep his resolutions, this year would be different, this year he had a better understanding of his brother.

"We're here," he whispered, leaning over to gently shake his brother awake. Dean stirred, growling at the older man as he slowly struggled back into the world of the fully-aware.

"Great," he grumbled, jerking away from the hand Sam had placed on his shoulder and shoving the door open. He set foot on the driveway and immediately regretted it, as he slipped and fell flat on his face on the icy driveway.

Sammy stumbled out of the car and carefully made his way across the driveway to help his brother up, but Dean wouldn't let him. The boy shuffled to the house by himself, slamming the door behind him as he finally made it inside.

Sam sighed and followed his brother into the house, getting in just as the bedroom door was shut hard enough to rattle every wall in the house. He was about to go after the teen and attempt another apology when he heard his father calling him.

The hunter glanced up at the stairs, toward the closed bedroom door, before deciding that it was smarter to heed his father's call before trying to patch things up with Dean. Slumping his shoulders against the invisible weight of the world that had seemed to settle there since the fight he'd had with his brother almost two days before, Sam headed toward his father's room.

John was standing by the dresser, gazing into a mirror with a sour look on his face. "What took you?"

"Traffic," Sam lied. The truth was that he hadn't really been paying attention as Dean had taken them from Point A to Point B and he'd gotten a little lost on the return trip. "So," he said, noticing for the first time the old man who was sitting on his father's bed, "this is our gypsy?"

The old man nodded quickly, an action that sent the flaps of loose skin on his face flying back forth, hitting each other with small smacking sounds. "That's me," he rasped, his voice as papery-thin as his skin looked, "and I'm awfully sorry."

"About what?" Sam asked, looking quickly between the gypsy and his father, "didn't you do this to punish dad?"

"Of course not! He saved our lives. See, we couldn't hunt the werewolf without risking one of the hunters being the hunted. We were trapped between a rock and a hard place until your father saved us all."

"Then why do this to me?"

"This is where it gets interesting," John quipped, still gazing into the mirror.

"Well," the little old man said slowly, stopping to clear his throat before going on, "we were so grateful that we wanted to do your father a favor, and since I'm the best in our tribe at granting favors, they sent me here."

"But dad went straight from killing your werewolf to another hunt."

"Exactly, He just didn't tell us about that. I came here, hoping to do a good deed, and when I thought it was done, I left. I didn't know your father wasn't present."

"How is this a good deed?" Sam asked, looking again between the old man and his father.

"Well," the gypsy aid quickly, sputtering a bit, "I-I just granted a wish."

"A wish?"

"Yes.

"What was it?"

The old man cleared his throat again. "I'm not quite sure. I just sensed it, felt the good intention behind it, and made it happen. You can't blame me for that."

"Well, who made it?"

"I don't know."

"Well, was it me or my brother?" Sam asked, already exasperated with the wizened gypsy.

"Would you ask for this?"

Sam hadn't thought that his shoulders could possibly fall any lower, but as he turned to his dad, they did. That old uneasy knot in his stomach came back with a vengeance, too. "Dean," he whispered, knowing that his father had been thinking the same thing.

"You can fix this, right?" John asked, ignoring his son's whisper.

"Oh, of course," the gypsy said quickly, nodding his head and producing that sickening slap again, "it's easy. I can do it now."

"Please," John sighed, waving a hand as if dismissing them both from his presence, from his life, from his home, "I'm ready to get this over with."

"Wait a minute," Sam blurted, "just give me a minute to say good-bye."

"Good-bye to who?" John asked, "your kidnapper?"

"This wasn't his fault," Sam defended, "and you need to remember that. I just want to tell him I'm leaving."

John shrugged, which was as good a cue to go as Sam figured he would get. He wasted no time in rushing into the room he'd shared with his brother, startling the boy as he shoved the door open and flopped down onto the bed beside the younger man.

"What do you want?" Dean moaned, sliding gracefully off of his own mattress to go sit on his brother's and look out the window at the sparkling snow.

"To apologize again," Sam stated, "and to ask you something."

Dean sighed. "What?"

"What did you wish for?"

The teenager turned to look at him. "_What_?"

"I want to know what you wished for."

"I already told you that. I wanted dad to come back home for Christmas. You really should get your memory checked when you get back, dude. One too many concussions, if you ask me."

Sam shook his head. "No, Dean. Before that. What did you wish for before that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sammy."

"The day before I showed up here, what did you wish for?"

"I didn't do this." That desperate sound in his voice was back, and Sam was actually _happy_ to hear it. When that pleading whine was back, it meant that the angry tones were gone, and the lack of aggression was reassuring.

"I'm not mad," Sam said for what felt like the thousandth time since waking up in 1995, "about any of it. I'm just curious. I want to know why I'm here."

"You're here because dad pissed off a group of gypsies. It's not hard to figure out, Sam." The anger was back, though a bit subdued. Sam still had a chance to make things at least semi-right.

"Dad did them a favor," he explained, "and they thought they'd do one for him. Only problem was that he wasn't at home. They didn't know that. They granted a wish and I showed up. Dean, just tell me what you wanted."

The boy ducked his head, slumping his shoulders in a perfect imitation of his brother. "It was just a stupid wish," he whispered, "it wasn't supposed to happen."

"What did you want?"

The response was barely audible, but sent chills through Sam's entire body. The raw emotion in his brother's reply was enough to make him want to take the boy up in his arms and swear to stay, forever if necessary, just because no one deserved to sound that hurt and unwanted and sad. "A friend."

"What?" Sam asked softly, not trusting himself to get more than that single word out.

"A friend," Dean explained, "I wished I had a friend. I wanted someone to talk to who wouldn't laugh at me or ignore me. I wanted someone who would understand. Someone who would pick up the slack when I didn't feel like being the adult anymore. I wanted someone who wouldn't leave, and who would hang out with me. I wanted someone who would make breakfast for me and trust me and want to help me and make me feel better and not care that I'm some kind of freak that everyone leaves and nobody loves. I just wanted a friend, and that's what I asked for."

"Then why did I show up?"

Dean shrugged. "Dunno. Wondered that myself. But then we started talking and you stood up for me and I figured it out. No one else could understand what we go through with the hunting and the training and everything. No one else would get it. No one else could move around with us. I thought it was too good to be true… and I was right. You're just like everyone else."

"Look, I said I'm sorry. I don't know what else I can do for you."

The boy looked up at him with sad eyes, eyes that no longer held the shine that they had a few days before, eyes that were dull with hurt and rejection and pain. "You could stay."

"Dean-"

"Just until the twenty-fourth. Then you can go back. We can pretend like this never happened and we can be a family and-"

"Dad's not gonna let me."

"Well, if you don't want to go back, then he won't have a choice, right? If you want to stay, that gypsy can't make you go. Not right away, at least. You could stay just a little while longer, and-"

"Dean, I have to go back. I've got a life and-"

"Friends."

Sam sighed. "Yeah. Besides, I' don't want to leave you all alone in the future."

"I think I'll understand. It's only for about a month. We can even celebrate New Year's together. We haven't done that in a long time."

"Look, I'm sorry, ok? I am. But I can't stay here with you forever. I've got to go back sometime."

Dean nodded. "You use that line a lot?"

"What?"

"You can't stay. You have to go back. Just seems like something you'd say. The future, school, wherever the hell else you go that's better than here with me. Yeah, it's something you'd say."

That anger was back in his voice and Sam knew that he'd blown it. He didn't have time to fix things anymore. His father would be calling him back at any minute, and John didn't like to be kept waiting.

"I'm sorry," Sam said again, putting as much conviction behind the word as he could, "but this is how it has to be."

Dean just turned back to the window and crossed his arms over his chest. "Some friend," he muttered as Sam walked out of the room.

o0o0o0o0o0o

The voices echoed down the hall, nearly stopping Sam in his tracks as he realized what they were saying.

"You can't do anything about it?" John was asking. He sounded mad.

"The boy has free will, Jonathan," the gypsy replied in his rasping voice, "I'm not going to change him for you."

"So you could. He could forget about this whole thing and-"

"You're talking about brainwashing you son! I won't do it!"

"You-"

Sam knocked on the door, effectively stopping the conversation. "I'm ready," he announced.

"Did you say good-bye?" John asked.

"Yeah. And, just for the record, I think brainwashing him again would be something you'll regret."

His father blinked. "You-"

"You already did it once, and this is what came of it. Don't make things worse."

"Wasn't planning on it," the older man growled, shooting an angry look at the gypsy.

The little old man got to his feet and gazed up at Sam. "Are you ready?" he croaked. Sam nodded. "Well, are you sure this is what you want?"

The hunter's eyes went wide. It was kind of an off-beat question, and he wondered if maybe the old man could read his mind. After all, he wasn't exactly sure that going back was for the best. He knew he couldn't stay, but that didn't stop him from thinking that he might be able to patch things up with his brother. Staying longer and then leaving anyway seemed like a worse option, though, so he nodded.

The gypsy stepped forward. "I am truly sorry for the inconvenience," he said, "now close your eyes and relax. You'll be back before you know it."

Gulping back uncertainty, Sam did as he was told, trying to let his body loosen up as he shut his eyes. He was vaguely aware of a soft chanting, a light that he could see through his closed lids, and a weightless feeling that he wasn't entirely sure that he liked. And then, he felt nothing.


	19. Chapter 19

Ok, so there's one more chapter afer this one. I just hope my labor of love (read: this story) was freaking worth it (read: loved by its readers). Enjoy!

* * *

Sam gasped and sat up straight in his bed, looking wildly around the room. The wallpaper was peeling, the carpet was dirty and crawling with small insects, the mirror that hung across from the two beds was broken, and Dean was sitting at the out-of-place wooden table in the middle of the room, munching on toast.

"Welcome back, Michael J," he grinned through a mouthful of crumbs.

"What?" Sam asked, blinking at his brother, trying to get rid of that weightless feeling that had seemed to settle into his limbs.

"You know," Dean said, waving half a piece of toast around in the air, "Michael J. Fox. He was in those _Back to The Future_ movies."

Sammy nodded absently, still staring at his brother. As if the condition of the room he'd been sleeping in wasn't enough, the sight of his nearly thirty-year-old brother clued him in to the time period. He swung his legs out of bed and stood up, stretching, when he realized what Dean had said.

He turned to his brother, eyes narrowed his suspicion. "Dean, why did you welcome me back?"

"Well-"

"To the _future_?" Sam added as everything clicked together in his mind. "You _knew_! You knew what was gonna happen and you didn't warn me!"

Dean shoved the rest of his breakfast into his mouth, dropping his eyes. "I dunno what you're talking about, Geekboy."

"Of course you know. You remembered it. You knew it was gonna happen this year and you didn't tell me?"

"It's like you're speaking another language here, Sammy," Dean said with a too-big-for-comfort smile on his face.

"Just tell me the truth for once, Dean," Sam said slowly, his tone icy, "I'm not mad."

The now-older man snorted. "That's a joke. You're always mad."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "You _do_ remember! I can't believe you'd let that happen-"

"What was I supposed to do, Sam?"

"Well, a heads-up would've been nice."

"Would it have changed anything?" Dean asked, getting to his feet and pacing around the kitchen, hitting Sam with such a sense of déjà vu that he nearly fell back onto the bed.

"Well," Sam sputtered, "yeah."

"What?" the older man demanded, "what would it have changed?"

"If I'd known what was going to happen, I, I dunno, could have prepared or something."

"Prepared?" Dean asked, his voice rising and booming around the small room, waking the dog up from an early-morning nap, "prepared how? Please, enlighten me."

"I could have changed things," the younger man attempted weakly.

"You wouldn't have been as nice to me, you mean," Dean said, "you wouldn't have let me get attached because that's what caused all the problems."

"Well-"

"Or maybe you wouldn't have told me about our special little Christmas Eve secret? I mean, if dad hadn't shown up, we never would have figured it out."

"Dean-"

"Or you could have done both. You could have totally ignored me and then nothing bad would have happened and we wouldn't have all this unpleasantness to deal with now, would we? Yeah, if only you'd known, things would be so much better."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then, please, explain it to me, Sammy, because I'm drawing a total blank on other options now."

Sam's eyes roved around the room, searching for an appropriate explanation. "I… well… you…"

"Got nothing', huh?" Dean asked.

The younger man hung his head. "Why didn't you just tell me? I mean, the shock of waking up twelve years ago alone-"

"But you weren't alone, were you?"

"You know what I meant." Now he was getting frustrated. He was tired, had just traveled through time, and wasn't in the mood for a fight. Sure, Sam didn't want to lash out, but sometimes it seemed like the only way to get through to his brother.

Dean nodded. "Fine. You want to know why I kept my trap shut? All right. I didn't tell you because telling you things is what messed everything up. You finding out about stuff ruined everything. Happy now?"

"You kidnapped me. I have a right to be mad."

"Thought you said you weren't, though. Thought you said you were sorry."

"That was then. This is now. You should have warned me."

"Why?" Dean asked, "why should I have told you? So that you could go back and pretend I didn't exist because I might just get my hopes up about something? So that you could head me off at the pass and save my precious feelings? Come on, Sam, I'm not gonna ruin the best Christmas I ever had because I wound up getting my feelings hurt in the end. Some things are worth a little pain."

"But what about dad?"

Dean shrugged. "He always hated me. Point is, I got what I wanted and I didn't want to erase that."

"But if you had told me-"

"What would you have done, Sammy? Would you have let me have my fun? Would you have stayed?"

Sam met his brother's eyes, feeling the anger slowly ebbing back out of him. "That reminds me," he said softly, "what's on the twenty-fourth of January? Why'd you only want me to stay that long? What's so important about it?"

"You really don't know?" Dean asked, and Sam finally fell back onto his bed. He'd been so used to hearing that defeated tone coming from a sixteen-year-old's mouth that hearing it spoken in a deeper voice was too much.

He shrugged. "No. Should I?"

Dean looked away, every movement of his body giving away how hurt he was. "You remember what I always used to do for your birthday, Sam?"

Sam shook his head. He was a little thrown by the subject change, but decided not to push it, not if his brother was really as hurt as he looked.

"I would invite your friends over and I'd wrap your presents and I'd bake a cake and I'd giver you a party. You know what we celebrated at that party? The fact that you were born. You existed, and we felt good about that, so we had cake and we played games and it was all because of you. It was all because you existed and we cared that you existed and we wanted you to keep on existing."

The younger man nodded. "Makes sense."

Dean nodded back, a sad smile playing across his face. "Yeah. But I didn't have parties. I didn't even have friends. Well, I had one, but," he looked back at Sam, "he left. I didn't have balloons or games or presents or even those stupid party favors that make the annoying noises. I didn't even have a cake. Nobody cared that I existed." He shook his head. "And you now you want to know what January twenty-fourth is."

Sam gulped. Now he could see the reasoning behind the story. He could also feel his stomach twisting back up into those familiar knots, could feel the self-hatred rising up within, could feel the way that a simple question could ruin his brother's view of him.

"January twenty-fourth is my birthday, Sam," Dean said, his tone calm, voice wavering, "but I wouldn't expect you to know that." He walked out of the room.


	20. Chapter 20

All right, guys. This is it. The final chapter of "All I Really Want." I hope ou enjoyed reading it just as much as I enjoyed writing it. Feel free to leave comments, reviews, constructive criticism, whatever. Thanks again to everyone who bothered to stick with the story. I hope you all had a good cry.

And now, here it is:

* * *

Sam Winchester had never been accused of being stupid. He was the smart one, even according to the demons. He knew how to research well, how to memorize long Latin rituals with minimal effort, and how to hack into his brother's Myspace in order to change his sexual orientation.

The one thing that Sam had never been smart about, apparently, was his brother. Dean was a mystery. He was like an onion, with layers upon layers of personality, wants, needs, and issues. He needed help, he needed family, he needed a birthday party. That much, Sam knew for sure.

He wasn't entirely sure what he had been expecting his brother to do when Dean finally returned from wherever he had gone after leaving, but he _had_ expected to see it.

Sam walked out of the bathroom and immediately began cursing his weak bladder as he saw Dean standing in the middle of the room, gazing around at all of the decorations.

"Um, surprise?" Sam attempted, grabbing a couple of handfuls of confetti from a near-by bag of the stuff and tossing it up into the air.

"What is this?" Dean asked, his eyes wide as he took everything in.

"This," Sam explained, spreading his arms wide and making a sweeping motion across the dirty room, "is all you're getting for Christmas this year, so you'd better like it."

Dean cocked an eyebrow and began inspecting the room. He looked up at the large banner that had been hung over the mirror, the confetti that covered every available surface, the small piñata that hung in a corner, the pile of poorly-wrapped gifts that sat below it, and the mess that had been strewn across the table.

"I repeat: what is this?"

"It's a celebration," Sam explained, taking a cautious step closer to the older man, "of your existence." He realized at that precise moment that it sounded cheesier coming his own mouth than it had coming from Dean's, and blushed. "I mean, happy birthday."

"A birthday party?" Dean asked, "Sam, what part of_ January _twenty-fourth don't you understand?"

The younger man shrugged. "Happy _early_ birthday?"

Dean shook his head. "Nice try. Really. But it might have been a little better sooner."

"But I got a piñata," Sam blurted, "and a cake. It's chocolate, just like you like. And those noisy party favors, and doofy hats and presents and _Pirates of the Caribbean_ plates and napkins and-"

"No matter the time period," Dean mused, cutting his brother off with a smirk, "you're easy to mess with."

"What?"

"Dude, look at this place!" Dean gushed, "it's awesome! You seriously did this?"

The younger man shrugged. "It was the least I could do. I mean, you had a point earlier. You did all that stuff for me and all I did was hang out with my friends. Maybe it's time I give a little back."

"Does this mean you're gonna stay?"

Sam grinned. "Yeah. I'm gonna spend Christmas with you, Dean."

"No," the older man said slowly, his voice holding that old tone again, making him sound four instead of nearly thirty, "I mean…"

Sam hung his head. "You're seriously asking me this?" Dean took a step back, the color draining from his face. "You honestly have to ask, after everything I just went through?" Another step, with a whimper thrown in for good measure. "I can't believe you. And you say _I'm_ easy to mess with."

Dean looked up at him with hurt, confused eyes. "Come again?"

"Of course I'm staying, Dean. Where else would I go? And why do you have to even ask? You _know_ me."

The older man eyed him suspiciously. "I thought I did," he muttered, "but-"

"I changed," Sammy grinned, "a lot. Thanks to you. You weren't wrong. _I _was. And I see that now."

Dean blinked. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Hold me."

"What?"

"Hold me, Sammy. That was beautiful. Hold me and never let me go. I want to stay in your arms forever. And while we're embracing, we can slow dance. Maybe to something by REO Speedwagon. And then we can cry."

Sam scowled. "Funny, Dean, but I'm being serious."

"So am I. Your arms are so warm and welcoming."

The younger hunter couldn't help but laugh. "I hate you."

"Right back atcha, Future Boy. So, what are we having for breakfast?"

"Cake. And it's the last time I'm making anything for you, so don't get used to it."

Dean nodded, heading over to the table and sitting down. "Fine by me. Let's eat."

"Not so fast," Sam cautioned, "we have to get in the mood first."

"Dude, I was joking about the slow dancing thing."

"Not what I was talking about, but it's good to know." Grinning, Sam retreated to the closet, where he had stashed the bags he'd brought everything home in.

"Aw, Sammy, I didn't mean it," Dean called after him, "you can come out of the closet now. I won't judge."

Sam stuck his head out of the small space and glared at the older man. "You're a real comedian today, aren't you, Dean?" he asked, grabbing what he'd been looking for and stalking up to his brother with it hidden behind his back. "Just for that, you get to go first."

"Go first?"

Sam practically slammed the _Little Mermaid_ party hat down on his brother's head before taking a quick picture. "Bet that brings back memories, huh?" Sam asked as Dean grabbed the hat and began inspecting it.

"And now you know why I hate Jo," the older man grumbled.

"Well, don't hate her too much, because I invited her."

"Invited her?" Dean asked, placing the hat back on his head, "invited her for what?"

"The party. Duh. And you thought you didn't have any friends."

"We're having a party?"

Sam nodded. "Yep. With Bobby and Ellen and Jo and Josh and everyone else. I thought about inviting Gordon, too, but I was pretty sure he wouldn't show up, what with the twenty-five-to-life and all."

Dean grinned. "And they're coming?"

"Said they would. Might take 'em a while, though. You're not that hungry, are you?"

"I'm good."

Sam grinned, retreating back to the closet to grab the rest of the hats. For a while there he'd been worried that he'd done the wrong thing, that he'd just ripped open an old wound, but the disbelief in his brother's voice, the happiness shining out of formerly dull eyes, told him otherwise.

He popped back out of the closet with a hat on his head and the rest in his hands. He grabbed one off the pile and tossed the rest on his bed, turning toward Criss with a malicious glint in his eyes. "Here, boy."

The dog trotted up to him, and, surprisingly, let him put the hat on his head without much hassle. "Good boy," Dean called as the little dog started shaking his head to get the accessory off.

Sighing, Sam sat down across the table from his brother, waiting for their guests to arrive. The sound of ripping cardboard echoed around the room as Criss finally pulled the hat from his head and began mauling the little mermaid and her adorable undersea friends.

"You really did all this for me?" Dean asked, turning from the dog to look at Sam, that tone in his voice no longer sounding so pleading and desperate, but somehow fulfilled.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, "Happy Birthday, Dean."

"Merry Christmas, Sam."

* * *

And they all lived happily ever after. The End. 


End file.
